


It's Not Living (If It's Not With You)

by GiveRichieTheTuba



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brief Descriptions of Panic Attacks, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Fix-It, Flashbacks, Fluff, Found Family, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Gay Richie Tozier, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, POV Richie Tozier, Repression, Soft Eddie Kaspbrak, Soft Richie Tozier, Stanley Uris Lives, The Losers all love each other so much, Underage Drinking, and I mean SOFT, canon typical homophobia, it ch 2 told me richie is a romantic and I took that and ran like the clown is chasing me, rip to stephen king but i'm different, stan is present the whole time and gets to be brave, teenage romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:15:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22726006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GiveRichieTheTuba/pseuds/GiveRichieTheTuba
Summary: “On a scale of 1 to 10, how smug are you going to act if I admit this is the perfect first date?”“Oh, a solid 14, sugarpie.” Richie drops their hands to throw an arm over Eddie’s shoulder and pull him close. Eddie looks at him with a scowl that really, really wants to crack into a smile. “I’m going to get a plaque made and force Ben to hang it up in the clubhouse. ‘Richie Tozier: Doting and Unbearably Handsome Boyfriend, Master First Date Planner, Owner of Derry’s Biggest Di—‘““The sacrifices I make to be a grateful boyfriend,” Eddie dramatically sighs. “Where’s my goddamn plaque.”Richie and Eddie spent their last two years of high school joined at the hip and completely, madly, obnoxiously in love, that much Richie has been assured. So why, after 22 years forced apart, they aren’t getting back together is frankly beyond anyone’s comprehension.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 44
Kudos: 139





	It's Not Living (If It's Not With You)

**Author's Note:**

> There are fandoms I've been in for years and never wrote anything for; these two goblins get a hold of me for two months and suddenly I don't know how to function until I give them a complete rewrite of their dumb clown movie. Life is weird. 
> 
> A couple things I didn't know how to include in the fic but are kinda necessary to know:  
> 1\. Bev didn't move away after they defeated It the first time; her aunt moved to Derry so Bev stayed until college.  
> 2\. Adult Stan didn't immediately remember everything when Mike called and therefore did not kill himself! Yay! He remembers everything in Derry with everyone else.  
> 3\. Adult Henry Bowers is not here. Where is he? Idk and idc. Not terrorizing the Losers, that's for sure!
> 
> Title is taken from the The 1975 song of the same name. Let's all pretend that's a sweet love song like I did when I named the fic months ago :) But the anthem for this fic is Lover by Taylor Swift if we're being honest here.

“Hey Rich, you okay?” Stan asks, working hard to keep his tone neutral instead of concerned. Or exasperated. Richie’s honestly not sure which one Stan is most feeling right now.

“Yeah, of course, why do you ask?” 

“Because you’re hyperventilating in the bathroom stall of a Chinese restaurant?”

Richie scoffs. “I’m not hyperventilating, Stanley, good lord. Save the dramatics for the professionals, okay?” But his voice is weak and noticeably out of breath because, yeah, he’d been hyperventilating a little.

There’s a momentary pause where Stan is very obviously rolling his eyes and trying not to snap back something too rude, and despite everything else, Richie can’t help but smile. _Maybe some things really don’t change_ , he thinks sadly.

“Okay, well, could you carry on not hyperventilating out here with us for a minute?” Stan finally settles on. 

“Who’s ‘us’?” Richie asks, trying to keep the frantic edge out of his voice and doing a pretty shit job.

“It’s just me, Rich,” Mike answers. 

Fuck. That’s a better alternative than what Richie was fearing, but still less than ideal. He doesn’t mind royally embarrassing himself in front of Stan, because that ship has _long_ since sailed, but he always strove to have some dignity in front of Mike.

He didn’t really succeed, but he _strove_ at least. 

Richie sighs under his breath, but he knows better than to ignore Stan. He exits the stall and shoots a grin to Mike and Stan, who look on warily. “I’ve been gone for, like, three minutes, and you’re already missing me? Keep it in your pants, fellas,” he teases with a confidence he immediately contradicts by having to lean against the sink, remove his glasses, and splash water on his face.

Stan is kind enough to not respond to that. Mike reaches forward to rub Richie’s shoulder and softly says, “I know it’s a lot, Rich.”

And yeah, that’s a fucking understatement.

Richie hadn’t known what to expect from this little meeting when he flew down here. He just knew the name “Mike” was almost overwhelmingly familiar, as was the town of Derry— and he knew how absolutely terrified and sick to his stomach the latter made him feel. But despite that awful feeling, there was some part of him—something small and hushed but more persistent than anything he had ever encountered—urging him there, insisting he had to go.

When he hugged Ben and Beverly again, that something started to make more sense.

Then, seeing the backs of four other men in the restaurant, he swore he heard a click.

 _There were seven of us, the Lucky Seven,_ he remembered. _The Losers’ Club, we were the Losers!_ As he rang the gong next to their table, admittedly just to be obnoxious, he very confidently thought, _Yes, okay, I think I have a handle on this now._

Because the universe loves fucking with him, that was of course the exact moment he locked eyes with Eddie. And it was like being hit in the back of the head with a shovel and missing the last step down a flight of stairs and hearing a favorite song for the first time in years all at once.

One look into those big, brown eyes, wide and trained solely on Richie, and it all came rushing back. _Oh right, I loved him. He loved me. We were in love._

They stared at each other for a few beats until Richie blurted, “Wow, Eds, 22 years and you really didn’t grow anymore? Real bummer.”

Eddie just blinked at him for a moment. Then his eyebrows furrowed and lips turned down into a scowl and he was snapping, fierce and rapid-fire, “Don’t call me that, asshole, and I’m 5’9, that’s, like, average height for most of the world, you’re just a fucking Sasquatch—”

A rush of affection unlike anything Richie’s felt in the past two decades surged through his chest and he grinned, both in response to the sensation and because he instinctively knew it would piss off Eddie. They went back and forth a few more times, though Richie well and truly wasn’t sure what either of them said. His brain had a designated “Bickering with Eddie” autopilot button that apparently still operated perfectly, so he just smacked it and let it do its thing while the rest of him worked through the next revelation: _Oh, I still love him. I’m still in love with him._

And, objectively, it was a daunting notion to realize you were still in love with your ex-boyfriend from 22 years ago, but somehow, Richie wasn’t scared but relieved. Relieved to still have that part of him. Loving Eddie had taken up so much of himself back in the day, encompassed so much, defined so much of who he was and how he behaved. So much so that he had felt sparks of it these past couple decades, he realizes that now. Moments where he saw someone whip out an inhaler, or where he was bickering with a friend, sharp and witty but never keeping up with Richie the way he craved, or even just those unbearably quiet moments where he was left alone with his thoughts for too long. Moments like those where out of the blue he’d feel a faint pang in his chest like he was searching for something and couldn’t find it. Like he was reaching out for something too far to grasp. 

Reaching out for Eddie.

So replacing those inexplicable twitches of longing with _this_ , this all-encompassing love, clear and succinct and as obvious as when he was twelve years old, flooding his system like Eddie’s irritated bitching had broken a dam, was nothing short of euphoric. 

Someone—probably Beverly in retrospect—pointedly cleared their throat in the background and Richie’s tunnel vision cleared to see Mike, Stan, and Bill. Exactly like when he saw Ben and Bev in the parking lot, he felt his heart pick up like a big, dumb golden retriever greeting its human at the front door after a long day, chanting _hi it’s you it’s you it’s you hi it’s you hi it’s you!_ Laughing a little in disbelief, Richie darted forward to hug each of them.

Mike beamed and gently said, “It’s good to see you, Richie.”

Stan grumpily muttered “Jesus, easy, Trashmouth,” at the force of the hug, but clutched Richie back just as hard.

Bill quietly teased, “Nice to see some things never change, huh?” clearly referring to the scene Richie and Eddie had just pulled. And he didn’t stutter at all, didn’t show even an ounce of struggle, and Richie felt so goddamn proud of his friend that he ignored the jab and just hugged Bill tighter. 

When he broke away from Bill, Eddie, who had just finished a round of hugs with Ben and Bev, was lingering at Richie’s side. He shuffled his feet a little, avoiding Richie’s expectant eyes while Bill moved away (smirking all the while, the bastard). But before Richie could properly worry about Eddie acting weird, he was pulling Richie into a hug. And it was stiff and pretty awkward and nothing like what Richie imagined in the two minutes he had been given to think about it. But god, if it didn’t make his heart soar anyway.

Eddie pulled away first, clearing his throat and looking at the floor again. But then he glanced up at Richie through his eyelashes and muttered, “Good to see you, Rich,” with a soft smile, and, yup, heart _soaring_.

“You too, Spaghetti,” Richie replied, snickering as Eddie scowled at him again.

As they all sat down, a look of profound horror found a home on Stan’s face as he realized he had sat himself between Richie and Eddie. He shot imploring looks at the rest of the Losers, who either discretely avoided eye contact (Ben and Mike) or shot back wicked smirks (Bev and Bill). Stan made sure to send them all truly impressive death glares but saved his best for Richie, who blew him a kiss when he noticed Stan’s discomfort.

They all ordered some drinks, and then no one said anything for a couple minutes, all of them just looking around at each other, drinking in everyone’s presence with awe and excitement. And in retrospect, Richie’s sure they all looked like fucking idiots to any outside parties, but none of them cared in that moment. They were in their own little bubble, and it was brimming to the edges with love and joy and pure _relief_ , the same kind Richie felt about Eddie but increased fivefold. The relief of finding something you were missing, something you didn’t realize you were missing, but was so important that you immediately berated yourself for misplacing it in the first place. 

Bill was the first to vocalize this last part, asking quietly, voice rough with emotion, “How did we ever let this go?”

Mike gave him an apologetic smile, then shared it around the table, all of their faces no doubt reflecting the same guilt and sadness in Bill’s voice. “Something happens to you when you leave this town,” Mike explained, quiet and somber. “Whoever leaves just… doesn’t remember. Not this town or the people you knew here. The farther away, the hazier it all gets.” He looked around at them all again and reassured, “It wasn’t your fault.” 

Honestly, just hearing that, from someone as steady and dependable as Mike, was enough to soothe them all for the time being. It allowed them to start drinking and goofing around, everyone cackling and ribbing each other in a matter of minutes. 

And if Richie kept glancing at Eddie every few seconds, well, no one called him on it. He really didn’t know how to help it. Because Eddie’s different, of course he is. He has more prominent frown lines these days, broader shoulders, a deeper voice, and most of his freckles have faded. But there’s still _so much_ of the boy Richie used to know. The same quick, hyperactive energy when he speaks, same volume, same scowl, same waving hand gestures, same temper and expletives and nose scrunches and bright smile and soft giggle, and Richie could hardly take his eyes off him. 

He watched Eddie and fell a little more in love with every passing minute and wondered how long he was supposed to wait before addressing the elephant in the room.

And that was when the fear started kicking in. Because as more time went by, it became obvious he and Eddie weren’t going to just embrace in an eruption of swelling background orchestrations, rose petals, and fairytale glitter. They were going to have to actually, you know, _talk_. And that’s what Richie fears, ironically enough.

Because words are his specialty until they matter. Until someone is going to actually take notice of them, properly absorb them, maybe even dissect them if Richie’s especially unlucky that day. Until someone is going to react to them, not just with laughs or eyerolls, but their own words, their own feelings. That is when words stop being his specialty and start being his worst nightmare.

And now, looking at Eddie, he couldn’t think of what to say besides _hey I know it’s been over 20 years, but apparently I’m still insanely in love with you, and maybe we could go out or something again_ , and he’s not even sure if he could get that out. But then again, Eddie was always the more emotionally eloquent one between them, so maybe he’d approach Richie first and say something—

Then Eddie casually mentioned the phrase “my wife” and Richie’s heart plummeted into his stomach.

His eyes snapped down to Eddie’s left hand and the ring that Richie had somehow fucking missed this whole time. And it didn’t seem fair that the sight of a simple silver band was enough to send devastation _that_ strong wracking through his chest, but then his life had never been particularly fair, had it.

That was also around the time his brain started working against him again. _Of course he fell in love with someone else, of course he moved on, you presumptuous idiot, it’s been 22 years, and he’s not pathetic and delusional and desperate like you_ —

He gave himself a couple minutes before the miserable pull in his gut and the tightening of his lungs became too much to resolve in front of six pairs of eyes. He excused himself to the bathroom to blink back tears, hyperventilate a little, and come to grips with the new reality:

Eddie isn’t his anymore.

_Maybe he never was._

Then it’s not just devastation but horror gripping him as that thought crosses his mind. Suddenly he’s hit with the idea that maybe all the memories that have been cycling through his head since the moment he stepped into this restaurant and saw Eddie weren’t really memories at all, but fantasies. Fantasies that never actually came true, but just kept building and building, growing more powerful and vivid, and now, after 22 years of stagnation, they’ve reentered his mind and he’s convinced himself they actually happened. 

He whips around to Mike and Stan in panic. “Guys, me and Eddie… we were… it was real, right? I’m not making it up, it was real?” He croaks out, voice breaking. 

And he must have looked pathetic, because Stan has only looked at him like that—equal parts startled and _hurt_ , like he’s feeling Richie’s pain just as much as Richie is— once, when he was the first to ask Richie about his feelings for Eddie, and he had responded with a fucking panic attack.

Mike looks at him sympathetically and answers, consoling and unwaveringly certain, “Yes, it was all real, Richie.”

Richie sags a little as relief courses through his body. Shakily putting his glasses back on, he mutters, “Okay, so what… um, what happened? Like, why… why aren’t we…” Richie can’t bring himself to finish that sentence. _Why aren’t we together? Why didn’t we walk in here hand in hand? Why isn’t he wearing **my** ring on his fucking finger?_ He weakly waves his hand instead, hoping that communicates well enough.

“Well, I guess… I guess I’m not quite sure, Rich,” Mike says regretfully. “When you both left for college, you promised you were going to do long distance. I mean,” he glances at Stan then back at Richie, “we all did. Last I heard from you, you and Eddie were still going strong. I think you both just forgot,” he finishes sadly.

And despite the doubts and fears clogging his brain, that does sound right. Richie can remember all of his and Eddie’s arguments—well, not _all_ of them, Richie doesn’t think anyone has the mental storage for _that_ , but the ones that were real, that involved genuine anger and hurt feelings— and he couldn’t remember one that broke them up.

They didn’t choose to be separated. They just forgot they were in love.

Mortifyingly enough, Richie feels his eyes start to well with tears again. And he really does want to have some dignity around Mike, so he pats his arm and says, “Right, yeah. Well, thank you for checking on me, Mikey, but you don’t need to watch any more of the Tozier Pity Party, I’ll be out in a sec.”

Mike, bless him, takes the hint without pause and gently says, “Sure thing, Richie,” shooting him one last sad smile on his way out.

As the door swings shut behind Mike, Richie lifts an eyebrow at Stan, who evidently did _not_ take the hint, and tries to silently urge him to follow Mike. Stan just stares back deadpan, clearly deciding he’s not budging until Richie’s talked this out with him.

Richie scoffs a little and leans against the sink again. “I’m such a fucking moron,” he mumbles, “for thinking things would just… go back to normal after 22 years.”

“If you’re a moron, so are the rest of us,” Stan responds, then snorts. “I’ve been waiting for Eddie to shove me to the floor and start making out with you on the table this whole time.”

Richie feels himself smirk, despite trying hard not to, then immediately feels a shot of guilt for imagining it, for wanting a reality where that were possible. He’s so selfish for wallowing in his own self-pity and wishing Eddie had been as lonely as Richie has all these years. He sighs and voices what he knows to be true, underneath the misery swirling in his chest. “I mean, I want him to be happy—”

“I don’t think he is,” Stan answers without hesitation. 

Richie manages a weak chuckle. “Stan, I know as my best friend you’re, like, required by law to talk shit about my ex’s new partner, but—”

“No, I’m serious, I don’t think he is,” Stan says thoughtfully, eyebrows furrowed in consideration. “I _remember_ a happy Eddie, and this… isn’t that. I just don’t see how he could be… you guys were, like, soulmates.”

And Richie knows Stan’s just trying to help, to reassure him, but _ow_ , that one did not play well to his current emotional state. “Stan,” Richie croaks, trying to sound reprimanding but coming across more pleading.

Stan winces as he fully pieces together what he just said. “Sorry, I don’t want to make you feel worse,” he whispers. Richie just shakes his head and waves him off. 

They sit in silence for a minute, Stan watching Richie and Richie staring down at his shoes. Then Stan says sternly, “You know you have to talk to him, right?”

“Yeah, I know.” Richie pauses for a moment then continues, “I’m not going to do anything about it, but yes, I do know that.”

Stan heaves a long-suffering, disappointed sigh that immediately has Richie’s hackles rising. “Richie—”

“Look, I can’t, Stan, okay?” Richie bites out. And he couldn’t. Stan knows this, they all did. Because Richie could say whatever inane little thought that popped into his head, until those thoughts _mattered_. Then it was like a clawed hand, fueled by terror and panic, was reaching up through his chest and into his throat, gripping his vocal chords and squeezing tight, doing anything in its power to prevent him from speaking the words swimming in his head, the ones that could make him vulnerable. The ones that would make him seen.

And he loves Eddie. He trusts Eddie to keep his heart safe, he always has. But that never made baring it any easier. 

Richie takes a shaky inhale and repeats, “I really fucking can’t.”

Stan just gives him a look, vaguely pitying but mostly dry and assessing. Then he firmly says, “Well, you owe it to him to try,” and exits the bathroom. 

And in moments like these, Richie loathes himself for claiming the group’s bluntest, no-nonsense jackasses as his best friend and love of his life. Those two wreak havoc on his anxiety.

***

It takes another couple minutes to fully get his shit together, but he does, okay? He’s an adult now, he can handle this. He endured four hormonal, closeted, emotionally turbulent adolescent years knowing he could never have Eddie, he could do it now. He just had to pretend he had never been proven wrong.

Easy!

When he makes his way back to the table, the riotous energy from before is gone, replaced with calm, quiet small talk. And Eddie is avoiding looking at Richie, which definitely makes him reconsider how well he can actually handle his shakily crafted plan. He also realizes then that he’s always been pretty spoiled when it comes to Eddie’s attention, because having it taken away from him, like _this_ , hurts almost as much as hearing he’s married.

In a moment of peak desperation—both to stop feeling like he’s thrown his heart into a woodchipper and to fix this sorry state he’s unwittingly put his friends in with his big, dumb feelings—he’s grabbing a bottle of booze and saying, “You nerds wanna see me take a shot with no hands?”

That at least has Eddie’s eyes darting back to him and the rest of the group graciously taking his bait with a burst of whoops and cheers, and that’s good enough for now.

In a matter of minutes, they’re all back to shrieking with laughter and yelling over each other, getting drunk on alcohol and the frenzied excitement that comes with 20 years’ worth of catching up and relearning each other. 

They’ve somehow all read at least one of Bill’s books over the years. (Mike read and reread and _reread_ every single one, and Bill has to blink back tears when he hears this.) Since they’re all apparently still hapless, doting worshippers in the Bill Denbrough cult, they heap tons of praise on him and his work… but they’re still little shits too, so they don’t stop themselves from roasting his terrible endings. Stan and Eddie are particularly brutal about it, given… you know, just the general way they are. Bill just leans back in his seat and takes it, staring up at the ceiling with the expression of a man who’s been here several times before. 

When the attention shifts to Ben, Mike and Bill make sure to compliment his own incredible work and successful company, because they don’t thrive off chaos. Because they _do_ , Richie, Stan, and Eddie just rave about how fucking hot he looks now. And yeah, Richie knows they lay it on pretty thick, but Jesus Christ, “If you’re gonna get flustered at people looking at you, you shouldn’t have gotten smoking hot, Benjamin!” (Beverly is noticeably silent during this entire conversation, and Richie absolutely notices the heart eyes she keeps sending Ben’s way. He nudges her shin and grins suggestively at her when she turns to him, earning himself a surreptitious bird under the table.)

Mike doesn’t offer any substantial details about what he’s been up to, and the other Losers know better than to ask. He’s been in fucking Derry after all, so if Mike doesn’t want to bring it up, they don’t want to make him. Instead, he tells them the names and cute stories of all the best animals he took care of before he sold the farm, and the favorite books he’s got tucked away in his little place above the library now. They all listen with way more rapt attention than those topics really require, but, well. The Losers’ Club has always been sort of helplessly charmed by Mike.

Beverly talks about her fashion line and very pointedly avoids any details about her business partner and husband. Richie knows they’ve all noticed the welts and bruises peeking out under her jacket sleeves, and that they’ve all made the connection, because he can almost _feel_ the collective rage that builds up between the six of them. But they don’t push the topic further, all understanding and sharing an unspoken agreement that she would hate if they did. Instead they shove down the anger and just try to surround her with an energy of _you’re here with us now, we would never lay a hand on you, we’d kill for you, Beverly, you’re safe_. He sees her smiling and laughing and, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, Richie marvels at her strength. _You made it, Bev. You did it._

Stan tells them all about his wife Patty. How the two of them met, what their wedding was like, how sweet and calming and pretty she is, all the while blushing and smiling like a lovesick schoolgirl… or a young Richie, tomato tomahto. Adult Richie makes a show of gagging, because he’s the asshole best friend and it’s his job. But he makes sure to shoot Stan a fond smile too, because he could never fully pretend that he’s not buzzing with warmth and pride seeing his best friend so content.

Eddie, _thank fucking god_ , doesn’t say any more about his wife, only his job. (Which Richie just _has_ to make fun of, he can’t fucking help it, a _risk analyst?_ That’s such an _Eddie_ job and Richie cannot help himself.) And when Stan talks about Patty and their happy marriage, Eddie spends a lot of time looking at his food and fiddling with his ring. Richie tries so, so hard not to read into that, not to replay Stan’s voice insisting Eddie isn’t happy… but he’s only human and he definitely fails.

Ben catches Richie staring at Eddie, at least one of the several times he does. When the two of them make eye contact after, Ben’s gaze is filled with nothing but sympathetic understanding, and he lifts a small, silent toast to Richie. And it’s so reminiscent of old times—when the two of them were united together in pining boy solidarity—that Richie has to swallow down a laugh, instead smiling back and lifting an equally small, silent toast .

And after that, he notices all the other four Losers glancing at him from time to time, knowing how he must be feeling right now and checking up on him. Taking care of him. Richie chuckles a little at that too. It really is like old times.

<><><>

“Rich, you’re in love with Eddie, right?” Stan asks, cadence like he was asking if it was going to fucking rain tomorrow.

“Stan!” Bill hisses, elbowing him in the side.

“Ow!” Stan yelps, rubbing the spot and shooting Bill a glare. “ _What_ , you said we should ask.”

“N-not like _that_ ,” Bill snaps back, and then they’re both turning to stare at Richie, who stares back, completely frozen in place.

It’s just the three of them, lounging around the quarry, goofing off, soaking up the new, warm weather, and trying to enjoy their summer. 

The summer before Georgie Denbrough disappeared. Back when things were still normal.

Normal and safe and good, but not perfect. Not perfect because their group was incomplete, even if they didn’t realize. Not perfect because their group was incomplete, and they _did_ realize— Eddie had managed to catch some minor sniffles when allergy season really kicked into gear and was promptly quarantined. It would still be another year before Eddie felt emboldened enough to even consider sneaking out, and another few weeks before Mrs. K worked through her fucking tantrum and let Eddie outside again, and Richie felt his absence like a physical ache much too strong to be normal. 

And yeah, not perfect because apparently Richie’s best kept secret wasn’t actually well kept at all.

He’s suddenly aware that Stan and Bill are both staring at him, concern slowly spreading on their faces the longer Richie sits there not saying anything. So, naturally, he tries to say something ( _Aw, you’re adorable when you’re jealous, Stanley. Of course not, babe, you know my heart only belongs to you_ ), but when he opens his mouth, he just sucks in a gulp of air, but it’s not enough, and suddenly he can’t breathe at all.

“Richie, h-hey, it’s okay,” Bill rushes over to crouch next to Richie. “It’s okay, j-just b-breathe.”

And he tries but he can barely hear Bill. His head is a furious, roaring mess of _you’re too obvious, you couldn’t keep it quiet, they know, they all know, you fucked up, you fucked up, you fucked up, you fucked up_ , and he really can’t breathe. Distantly, there’s a little whisper underneath the chanting, saying, _you need an inhaler, this must be how Eddie feels_ , but the thought of Eddie only makes him wheeze harder.

“It’s okay, Rich, r-really, deep b-breaths, okay?” 

And he _tries_ , he’s gasping and heaving, but it’s not enough. _There’s not enough air in here_ , he thinks wildly, even though that makes no _sense_ , they’re _outside_ , and it must be him, he must be the problem, he’s always the problem, maybe he needs bigger lungs, lungs that don’t just give up and cave in on themselves at the mention of something big and real and scary, and they burn and his eyes water and—

“Richie, you need to breathe, in through your nose, out through your mouth, come on,” Bill says. And he didn’t stutter once.

That’s what finally breaks through to Richie. That simple fact rouses something inside saying _this is important, listen to Bill, he knows best_. And it takes another minute, but he gets there. He keeps his eyes locked on Bill’s guiding inhales and exhales until it all evens out again.

His heart is still pounding, and his head is still screaming, but at least he can breathe.

“J-Jesus, Stan,” Bill sighs out, exasperated.

Richie glances up at Stan, and fuck, he must look pathetic if Stan’s watching him like _that_. Terrified like he thinks Richie’s about to keel over and pained like maybe his lungs are hurting just as bad as Richie’s. 

Stan stumbles over his words for a moment, then tries, “I didn’t think—”

“Didn’t think I’d get my ass beat into the ground if anyone else thought that about me? Nah, I feel ya, Stanley, I don’t really think about that either.” And Richie really does try to make it a joke. But his voice is so shaky and his smile so weak and his words all too real and it just doesn’t play that way at all.

Stan’s face crumples. Now he just looks _sad_ and Richie can’t take it, he has to look down again. “I’m sorry, Richie,” Stan whispers.

Richie shakes his head and waves his hand in a _don’t worry about it_ gesture, because he’s not angry with him. There isn’t room in his chest for anything other than panic anyway.

“And hey, you’re not wrong,” Richie rasps out, keeping his eyes fixed to his shaking hands in his lap. He might as well admit it. No point in lying after that whole spectacle. 

A few moments of silence follow, and Richie knows it’s because Bill and Stan are having one of their silent conversations, the kind where they can just meet each other’s gaze and pass what seems like a thousand words between them without once opening their mouths. And in this quiet Richie suddenly remembers a vow the four of them made last year. A standard, unprompted, best friend promise to never keep secrets from each other, one that Bill and Stan had always upheld, and his lungs tighten up again. 

“You can’t tell Eddie, okay?” Richie rushes out, and it’s not a request, it’s a frantic demand.

“Richie, I think—” Stan starts.

“ _No_.” Oh, guess there _is_ room for anger. Because, at that age, a mere twelve years old, Richie couldn’t recall ever sounding that angry. It’s punched out of him so vehemently it startles even himself. He blinks down at his hands, takes a deep breath, and tries again. “No, okay? He can’t know. Please.”

“We won’t s-say anything, Richie, we p-promise,” Bill says, stutter doing nothing to impact the firm resolution in his voice. Richie, still unable to look up, just nods, content with that.

There’s another few moments of even more silence and then Bill says, voice gentle, “You know nothing’s ch-changed, right? We’ve su-suspected for a while and nothing changed. We st-still love you.”

Richie finally looks up at them again. Bill’s eyes are filled to the brim with soft compassion and Stan is aggressively nodding, looking like he’ll genuinely fight Richie if he tries to refute the claim.

Richie can count on one hand the number of times he’s cried in front of any of the other Losers, and that day was the first. With no warning, he’s just bursting into tears. Not giving even a moment’s hesitation, Bill and Stan are rushing over to flank each side of him and hold him tight. And Richie cries, clutching their arms and burying his face in Stan’s shoulder, thanking God or whoever the fuck for giving him best friends like them.

***

He doesn’t remember ever directly telling Ben or Mike, or even really indicating anything to them; they somehow just knew. Whether it’s because another Loser told them or they were just intuitive, he doesn’t know, but either way Richie was grateful.

And Mike and Ben never talked about it with him. Not necessarily because they knew Richie specifically didn’t want to, but because they were experiencing similar plights, similar struggles, and that shared understanding just felt too charged to put into words. Instead, they shared their camaraderie in other ways.

In Mike, a boy well acquainted with the awful existence of being an outsider in Derry, watching Richie stare out into the town that hated people like him, and rubbing a comforting hand on Richie’s shoulder. In Ben, turning to Richie when Bev and Eddie laughed at the same time, recognizing the lovesick torment in his eyes, and sharing with him a pained, sympathetic nod. And they were simple things, simple gestures. But to someone like Richie, who struggled so much with facing what was real, with owning and absorbing the words that would get him there, a simple knowing glance or gentle shoulder rub was exactly what he needed some days.

It was Mike saying, _we’re different from everyone else here, and they don’t like that. But we’ll make it. We have our people, our people that love and accept us, and we’ll make it together. I get it, Richie._

It was Ben saying, _we’re going through the same thing. I know your heart and maybe it’s a little bit different, but really, it’s just like mine. You’re like me. You’re normal. I get it, Richie._

And it meant the fucking world to Richie.

***

Beverly Marsh had been his savior back in the pining era. His goddamn guardian angel. The confidante he hadn’t realized he needed until he had it. Richie was loath to think of what other kind of impulsive bullshit he would have done had he not been able to drain out all the fluffy thoughts and feelings his heart vomited when confronted with the general existence of Eddie Kaspbrak. He likes to think the Kissing Bridge incident would never have happened if he had come out to her sooner.

(“Stop hating on past Richie, it was so _sweet_.”

“It was creepy and lame and all in all just the worst case of desperate pining ever, _you_ stop enabling him, Beverly.”)

Anyway.

They had both been sixteen the first time it happened. Just a few months before Richie and Eddie started dating, actually. 

Richie and Bev sometimes got together to hang out one-on-one and smoke—without telling the other Losers, because not even a single one of them approved of the habit and they were always scheming of ways to get the two of them to quit. (Richie and Bev weren’t actually _that_ hooked on smoking, and honestly would drop it if any of them sincerely asked, but frankly they were curious to see what other tactics they all would come up with.) During one of these sessions, Beverly showed up with a bottle of whiskey she swiped from her aunt and they both gave it a shot with shared shrugs of “eh, fuck it.”

And it was fun. They laugh a lot and tell each other stories, some that they maybe wouldn’t have shared if not for the loose, carefree way the whiskey feels. Beverly casually mentions that she kissed Bill after the blood oath, then laughs so hard she cries when Richie responds with a genuine spit take. She admits, a little wistfully, that she’s maybe a bit regretful they never took the chance to see if anything more could blossom between them, but she mostly doesn’t really feel that way about Bill anymore. “I think I’ve moved on to someone else anyway,” she says with a soft smile and sparkle in her eye. 

(She doesn’t specify who, and Richie doesn’t ask, but he knows. And because he cares so much about Bev and feels so honored to have her trust, he promises to himself he won’t say anything to Ben, but _lord_ , the urge is strong.)

Bev gets a little more somber the more she drinks, and somehow the conversation shifts to heavier stuff. Like her father, the way he treated her, the way he always made her feel like she was walking through a landmine in her own home. Or the rumors that are _still_ circulating around school, dead set on painting her in the worst light possible, even though she has no idea what she did to warrant it.

And Richie swears he sees red. He’s absolutely livid that she has to go through _double_ the same kind of torment that he does, and a fucking awful childhood to top it off. He can’t fucking stand this miserable town and the way it treats _any_ of the people he loves, but especially Beverly, this kind, beautiful girl who has only ever given love and acceptance and just asked for a little in return.

But his anger won’t do any good for anyone, and instead he hears himself say, “You’re my hero, Beverly Marsh.”

Bev laughs, like she thinks it’s a joke, and playfully nudges him in the ribs. “Shut up.”

“No, I’m serious,” Richie shakes his head, giving her the sincerest look he can. “Sometimes people go through shit like this and they choose to be dicks. Like, not in the fun, endearing way I’m a dick.” Beverly snorts at that. “I mean they’re just… _mean_. And like, it’s hard to fucking blame them, you know? But you’re one of the warmest, sweetest people I know. You choose to be like that. That’s what heroes do.”

And god, why is Richie not drunk, like, all the time? Words flow out of him so easily like this. Sober Richie would have never said this, even though the words would have been right there in his head, even though he would have known that Bev would appreciate it; he would just clam up and replace all this with some stupid joke instead. 

Bev doesn’t reply, just watches him intently, looking a little shocked and a lot touched. Somehow Richie keeps going. “It’s just brave, you know? To be kind to a world that hasn’t been kind to you. You’re the bravest person I know.” He pauses, and okay, he has to be honest. “Well, tied with Eddie.”

That seems to snap her out of it, and she grins at him. “Tied?” She gasps with mock affront. “I’m insulted, Richard, I thought I was special!”

Richie laughs and shrugs his shoulders. “What can I say, he’s a badass!”

“I stabbed It in the face!”

“He _kicked_ It in the face!” He retorts, waving his arms around emphatically. “No weapon, Marsh, just pure, concentrated fury!”

Bev leans out of the way to avoid accidentally getting smacked in the face and laughs. “Okay, you make a solid point.”

“Plus his fucking mother, man,” Richie continues, way too drunk to keep the annoyance he feels thinking about Sonia from seeping into his tone. “God, she’s such a maniac. He’s just… incredible for putting up with that and standing up to her.”

Bev nods, looking serious once again. “Yeah, he really is.” Her expression turns thoughtful for a few moments, as she stares at the space in front of her, then she says softly, “I guess he and I have a lot in common.”

“You definitely do,” Richie agrees. “But don’t worry, I’m not going to fall in love with you too.”

Oh, right. That’s why he’s not drunk all the time.

And it’s so sudden and out of left field that of course Bev is taken by surprise, but when she starts choking on her drink with said surprise, Richie’s heart seizes in his chest and he’s flying into panic immediately. He scrambles to his feet and throws on a British accent that gets lost with how rapidly he’s talking. “Welp, Miss Marsh, this has been bloody smashing, but I really must be off—”

“Richie, no, no, hang on,” she stops him, grabbing his arm and pulling him back down. And well, Richie’s too drunk to put up much of a fight, instead just curls up in a ball and tries to hide. “Don’t be afraid, Richie, I think that’s wonderful,” she says gently, smile in her voice. “I was just surprised you told me. But it’s okay, I’ve known for a while how you feel about him.” 

“What do you mean you _know_?” Richie whines, raking his hands through his hair and tugging the ends. “Why does everyone know?!”

She chuckles a little and runs a soothing hand down the arm she’s still holding onto. “That’s just the way love works sometimes, honey. You can’t always keep it all bottled up, sometimes it just pours out.” As though she can sense his next panicked concern, she quickly reassures, “Eddie doesn’t know, though. Trust me, that boy is as oblivious as they come.” Richie breathes an audible sigh of relief.

There’s a minute of silence where Richie tries to get his heartrate back under control and Beverly continues stroking his arm. Then she says, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” he blurts out instinctively. But it’s unconvincing. Because drunk Richie, fucking traitor he is, actually really _, really_ wants to talk about it. 

“Richie,” Bev says, tone a little firmer but still gentle. “Look at me.” He does. And the gleam in her eyes tells him she can sense how much he’s got tucked away and how weak he is at this current moment in time. “Tell me about Eddie.”

Then he’s crumbling like a house of cards built by a toddler. He collapses against Bev, head on her shoulder, and rambles like… well, Eddie, the words flying out of his mouth a mile a minute. “Oh my fucking god, Bev, he’s driving me insane, I can’t take it, I can’t handle it. We were in class last week, a couple minutes before the bell, right, just sitting at our desks, and I’m dicking around, you know, telling some stupid joke, and look, even I’ll admit it was stupid, okay, and whatever Voice I picked was shit, and I’ll admit it, okay? So Eddie’s of course rolling his eyes and opening his mouth to curse me out, but before he can, some kid sitting behind him goes, ‘Jesus, do you ever shut up, Tozier?’ Eddie fucking _whips_ around to look at him, like the kid sneezed on his neck or something. Like so fast the kid, like, jolted, Bev. And then, and _then_ , Eddie sounds _livid_ and he says, he fucking says, ‘Do you ever mind your own damn business, Marvin, or is that empty skull of yours so boring you need to stick your nose in everyone else’s shit just to stay awake? Get a fucking life.’ Then he turns back to his fucking notebook, and without even looking at me again, calmly goes, ‘But do actually shut up, Richie.’ And Bev, I swear to fucking god, I was so red Bill actually, sincerely tried to get me sent to the nurse.”

“Yeah, you are pretty red, Richie, good lord,” Bev says, curiously testing his forehead with the back of her hand.

“See?! And I’m just retelling it! What the fuck!”

That goes on for a good solid hour or so, Richie ranting on and on about just how _much_ Eddie is, too much and simultaneously not enough, never enough. He pauses to take sips of the whiskey when he feels himself getting too sober to go on, cause god, talking like this feels _good_ , it’s so worth the awful hangover he’s bound to have in the morning.

Bev, bless her, sits quietly and listens, nodding along and rubbing his back. At some point, her soft demeanor breaks momentarily so she can grin wide and mischievous and say, “We are so talking about this when you’re sober.”

“Oh, Miss Marsh, I can assure you we are not.”

And well, they kinda did. If Beverly’s gentle, reassuring prodding and Richie responding with a stammer that puts Bill’s to shame really counted as “talking.”

Eventually Bev catches on to the unspoken truth—that Richie has to be real fucking drunk to be that forthright with his feelings about Eddie—so she just offers up another night of drinking if he ever feels like it.

And they don’t do it very often, but they have a handful of more nights like that one, where they drink and smoke and bare little pieces of their hearts to each other. Beverly talks about many things, like her dad or her aunt or her dreams, and Richie listens intently and offers up whatever he can, because he desperately wants to be a good friend to her. Then Richie talks about Eddie, only Eddie, always Eddie, and it helps. 

***

Eddie was practically vibrating with the need to tell the other Losers about their new relationship immediately. Like, minutes-after-they-got-together immediately. Richie figured they all deserved a satisfactory conclusion to the fucking melodramatic soap opera he’s been putting them through, so he agreed, helping Eddie call up the others and insisting they all absolutely _had_ to meet up the next day.

Now they’re all here, sitting in the woods outside the clubhouse. The five of them are situated in front of Richie and Eddie, and Eddie’s excited jittering has very rapidly devolved into nervous jittering. And Richie knows he’s the one who should be saying something to calm him down, as his new boyfriend (and _Jesus_ , the sooner his heart will stop leaping at just the mention of that word, the better), but god help his stupid trashmouth, he has no idea what to say.

The other Losers all share glances with each other while Eddie manically bounces his knee up and down and Richie sits and watches like a useless tree stump. Then Bev gently asks, “So what did you want to tell us, Eddie?”

Eddie’s head snaps up to look at her, like he had forgotten they were there he was so lost in his thoughts. Then he claps his hands together and says, “Right! Okay, yeah, okay, so I—” He falters then gestures between him and Richie, “Well, we, we just wanted to… we… um—”

He glances at Richie for help, eyes a little wild. Richie just shoots back a look that he hopes reads both _I promise you do not want me to take over because anything that comes out of my mouth right now will just piss you off_ and _I should have mentioned before, but I know this is going to be okay_. 

Eddie seems to recognize both of these messages, the former making him scowl at Richie just a tiny bit, but the latter making him take a deep breath and blurt out, “Richie and I are dating.”

There’s a second of silence as the Losers process this, because Eddie had spoken almost too quickly to be comprehensible. Then Ben and Mike, the group’s designated actual-fucking-angels, both shoot them a beaming smile and Ben actually starts softly applauding, the sap; Bill and Bev whoop and whistle; and Stan tilts his head to the sky and groans, “Fucking _finally_.” 

Richie couldn’t have kept the smile off his face if he tried. He’s always known he has some pretty fucking amazing friends, but right now in this moment, it really hits him just how grateful he is for them. Because something so gut-wrenchingly petrifying to him, something that’s kept him awake countless nights and given him fucking panic attacks at the drop of a hat, something he was sure would bring him nothing but disgust and hatred in this malicious shithole he calls a hometown—something so important to him is practically effortless for them to accept, to _celebrate_. His chest is buzzing with warmth, and happy tears prick at his eyes, and he is so lucky to know these people—

“Wow, thanks, guys, that’s really nice,” Eddie says, and he’s smiling too, relieved and touched, but his brows are furrowed in bemusement as he glances to Richie and back. “But, uh, aren’t you, like… surprised?”

… And seeing the mischievous looks they all—dirty, traitorous fucking angels included—start wearing, Richie immediately takes it all back. 

“Uh, I think they’re just hiding their surprise right now to be supportive and, especially, _compassionate_ friends, right, guys?” Richie implores through gritted teeth, trying to convey the desperate sense of _my feelings are already fucking immortalized in the world’s most pathetic public display of affection, please do not embarrass me any more than I already have_ through his eyes. 

Bev puts on a look of faux consideration and says, “That’s funny, I don’t… I don’t _feel_ surprised.” She looks back at the other four. “Do you guys feel surprised?”

Bill and Stan, who have been waiting four years for the opportunity to tease Richie about this, too scared of upsetting him before, break into admittedly decent past Richie impressions and overlap each other with whines of “Eddie, Eddie, E-Eddie, watch this, Eddie, p-pay attention to me, Eddie,” and “Eddie Spaghetti, wanna hear a joke, Eds, Eddie, are you listening, please think I’m funny, Eddie,” while the other three bastards giggle in the background.

“ _Okay_ , gentlemen, I think we _get it, thank you_!” Richie shouts over them, face on fire. He avoids looking at Eddie, who is grinning at him like a fucking shark. 

Until Bill says, “I don’t know why the h-hell you look so s-smug, Kaspbrak.”

Eddie’s grin drops immediately, and maybe Richie still loves these bastards after all. 

“Yeah, you weren’t exactly subtle either, Eddie,” Mike chimes in, voice apologetic but smile absolutely not.

“Remember when Richie called you cute and you blushed about it for, like, five minutes?” Stan points out.

“W-which time?” Bill asks sarcastically with a smirk.

“Exactly,” Stan deadpans.

“Or when you didn’t talk to me for a week cause you thought I had a crush on Richie,” Bev adds.

“Or the day I set up the hammock,” Ben says.

“Oh god, the _hammock_ ,” Stan groans and then all five of them are talking over each other, teasing Eddie for wanting a turn in the hammock and deciding the best response was to crawl in with Richie instead of trying to pull him out of it, like any of the rest of them would have.

Now Richie’s grinning like an asshole at Eddie, who’s bright red and snapping defenses for himself (“Have you seen this bastard’s legs, he’s a fucking giraffe and the clumsiest piece of shit I know, how was I supposed to safely maneuver someone with a clear height advantage out of a hammock, _a hammock_ of all things!”). And of course he knew Eddie liked him, Eddie had made that abundantly clear, but there’s something distinctly elating about Eddie liking him so much it was _obvious_ , so much their friends picked up on it. What can he say, it does great things to a man’s ego.

Richie swings an arm over Eddie’s shoulders, dragging him in close to his side and steadfastly ignoring Eddie repeatedly elbowing him. He smacks a loud, obnoxious kiss to Eddie’s cheek before nuzzling his hair and cooing, “Give ‘im a break, guys, boys will do crazy things when they’re in love.”

The others laugh and Stan rolls his eyes skyward again as Eddie spins to face Richie fully, his voice raised an octave to screech, “Like you have any fucking room to talk!”

(Eddie hadn’t offered any sort of denial to the “in love” part of the tease though, something that hadn’t dawned on Richie until hours later, and then kept him up half the night.)

<><><>

Richie goes to shoot them each a grateful smile—grateful for their place in his life past and present; for their unconditional support back then and for the fuzzy feeling of pure content he feels in his chest watching them all naturally fall back into their old rhythm like it’s only been a matter of days and not decades—when Mike clears his throat. They all turn to him and immediately fall silent at the solemn look on his face.

“Over the phone, I told you all that you had to come back,” Mike says, dropping his voice like he doesn’t want to be overheard… like he doesn’t want to be saying anything at all. “That we had made an oath. Do you know what I was talking about?”

The table stays almost eerily silent as they all look at each other in confusion. Then it hits them all at once.

“Pennywise,” Beverly whispers.

And everything goes to shit from there.

They have to fight the fucking clown again, that’s the main takeaway from this past horrifying fifteen minutes.

Richie, Stan, and Eddie are united in a fit of absolute outrage and terror, Eddie furiously pacing back and forth across the parking lot and all three of them yelling a lot of “Fuck this,” and “No way in hell are we doing this again,” and “Fuck this miserable town, let’s get out of here.” But none of them leave.

Their cars are _right there_ , it would be so easy to. But they don’t.

They’re held there by the desperate plead in Mike’s voice. By the righteous determination and vengeance brewing in Beverly and Bill’s eyes. By the conviction in Ben’s frown as he looks at Bev, that says he’s backing her play no matter what. 

And really, that sense of loyalty is what it all comes down to. Each of them feels it towards every other person here.

If even one person wants to stay and stop It, they all will.

That’s not a conscious decision of their heads. It’s a simple, fundamental truth of their hearts. A cosmic string in each of their chests, tying them all together in a messy knot stained with the blood of their palms.

They made each other a promise.

Richie knows he can’t leave any of these people. Not a single one.

He glances at Eddie, who still looks pissed and frightened but has stopped pacing and is looking at them all with the same resignation Richie himself just came to.

Stan still looks mere moments away from turning around and running, his face sickly pale and hands trembling. But he still doesn’t, just clutches Richie’s arm and watches Bill. Bill meets his gaze and for a few moments it’s as if a thousand words are passed between them, just like when they were kids. Stan then heaves an exhausted sigh and rests his forehead on Richie’s shoulder. “We’re really fucking doing this, aren’t we?” He croaks out, voice shaking as badly as his hands.

Richie sighs too and rubs a hand down Stan’s back. “Yeah, fucking looks like it, man.”

* * *

They all head back to the townhouse to talk about where the fuck they’re supposed to go from here. The answer apparently is some sort of tribal ritual Mike found in his research. Richie makes sure to vocalize how fucking stupid that sounds, for the principle of it, but Mike is positive it will work, and it’s not like any of them can say no to Mike. They all agree to it, making plans to head out and get to work as soon as the sun comes up.

As they all get up to call it a night—an utterly overwhelming clusterfuck of a night—Stan, who hasn’t spoken a word since the Jade of the Orient parking lot, stops them all with a quiet, “Hey, guys, do you think… do you think I could stay with one of you tonight? I really… I really don’t think I should be alone right now.”

That wording coupled with the feeble way he says it sets off alarm bells in all of their heads and they’re all immediately stumbling over themselves to offer up their rooms. In the end, he goes with Bill.

(And Richie must not be hiding his concern as well as he thinks, because as he and Stan head upstairs, Bill gives Richie a quiet nod, a reassurance of _it’s okay, I’ve got him, I’ll look after him_. Richie nods back his thanks.)

Richie and Bev book it outside for a smoke break… which quickly devolves into a chain smoke break. On their third cigarettes, they both admit neither of them have smoked in years but agree that if there were ever a justifiable time for a relapse, hoo boy, this is fucking it. They don’t say any more after that, just stare up at the sky, cigarettes loosely dangling between their fingers. At some point, Richie reaches over with his free hand to grab Bev’s and she grips back. 

When Richie comes back inside, all the other Losers have gone upstairs. Except Eddie—because _of course_ it’s Eddie—who Richie can hear talking, seemingly on the phone, in the lounge/bar next to the lobby. And, like Richie is magnetically linked to the sound of Eddie Kaspbrak’s voice, he’s following it into the next room without stopping to think about whether or not he should.

He realizes right away he should _not_ have, but oh fucking well. He’s here now and he can’t look away.

Eddie is hunched over on the couch, phone to his ear, listening silently to the hysterical raving on the other end of the phone that Richie can’t really make out, but can sure hear even at this distance. Eddie’s knee is manically bobbing up and down and his eyes are a little wild as they stare off into the distance. He quickly and gently tries to get out, “I know, Myra, listen—” until the voice on the other end raises in volume, then he flinches back a tiny bit and clamps his mouth shut. Richie’s heart aches looking at him.

This is exactly what he used to look like talking to his mother.

Suddenly Richie’s thinking of Beverly’s father and her piece of shit husband, and things he remembers reading in college about victims of child abuse, and everything starts to make a little more sense.

 _Don’t assume shit like that, you asshole,_ his brain admonishes, _you are way too close to this situation to be impartial. You’re just reading into things because you’re jealous._

But Richie knows what jealousy feels like, and the anger he feels ballooning in his chest watching this isn’t that. 

Richie’s absolute favorite thing about Eddie—in a long, long list of favorite things—was always how outspoken he was. That he could be brash and bitchy and foulmouthed, but just as easily be comforting and helpful and encouraging, because at his core, Eddie was honest.

Richie obviously wasn’t like that. He minced his words, and hid behind stupid jokes, and had to be pushed to the absolute brink or, you know, alarmingly drunk to actually express his feelings—so he always admired the guts it took to be as honest with the world as Eddie was. Especially when it came to the negative stuff, the stuff that didn’t sit well with Eddie. Eddie knew what he wanted in life, and if anyone or thing gave him a problem, everyone damn well knew, because he didn’t take anyone’s shit.

Except his mother’s.

That’s hardly to say that he took _all_ of it, though. Things were bound to change after that summer; the Losers all grew up after defeating It, and Eddie was no exception.

He flat out refused to take any more of his medicine once he found out they were all fake (a decision that had filled Richie with so much pride once he heard about it, it took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to dart forward and kiss Eddie right on the lips). Whenever Mrs. K got into those kicks where she wanted to keep him home all the time, he explained to her how much the time spent with his friends meant to him and argued with her when she tried to tell him they were bad influences. Shortly after Richie and Eddie started dating—which they always kept secret from Mrs. K, because dear Lord, they were brave, not criminally insane—Eddie had thrown an absolute fit during one of her patented “You really shouldn’t be spending so much time with that nasty Tozier boy” tirades and then given her the cold shoulder for a week. (He confessed to Richie later that that instance was easily the angriest he had ever gotten around her, a fact that had filled Richie with so much affection he immediately darted forward to kiss Eddie right on the lips, cause he was allowed to that time.) And, best of all, he insisted on leaving Derry and going to college out of state.

But that one had been an absolute fucking disaster—even with Eddie giving her a calm, rational explanation of his reasoning and just overall being about ten times more sweet and patient than Richie would have even considered being—and it had taken weeks of back and forth before Eddie could actually put his foot down and commit to the decision. She had screamed and sobbed and hurled accusations of abandonment in every fucking conversation, and it all drove Eddie crazy with guilt. It brought back the panic attacks and the self-deprecation, just like when he was younger, and Richie had _hated_ it. Hated how some fat, deranged old woman could take this boy—capable of speaking his mind and kicking fucking demon clowns in the face—and turn him meek and malleable on a whim. Hated that that’s what she wanted; that she could look at her brave, beautiful son and _want_ to extinguish that fire living inside him.

And, cruel as it may be, Richie doesn’t have to meet Myra to know he hates her too. Hates that she could reduce Eddie to this and not feel absolutely disgusting for it, but just keep going and going, trying to suffocate him.

Because he can tell from the weary set of Eddie’s brow that this is not a one-time thing, not just a concerned wife reacting a little irrationally out of worry. This is Eddie’s norm.

Eddie finally notices Richie standing in the doorway and stiffens. Richie does some kind of awkward wave and gestures over his shoulder, mouthing, “Sorry, I’ll go.” But Eddie shakes his head then snaps his fingers and points downwards, like he’s commanding a dog to stay. And Richie thinks he should probably find that insulting, but as it is, he just holds back a smile and does as he’s told.

“Honey, I have to go, it’s been an exhausting day and I want to make sure I get enough sleep. I know how much you worry about that,” Eddie rushes out, shifting into a _very_ well-rehearsed, sugary sweet, wheedling tone. Richie can’t count the number of times he’d seen that kind of move pulled on Sonia Kaspbrak, and his blood starts boiling again.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Eddie continues. “… Okay. … Okay. Yes, I will. Yes, I’ll remember. Okay, good ni—" 

Then he freezes, eyes going wide like a cornered wild animal. He clenches and unclenches his fist a couple times then, after a shaky exhale, mutters, “… Yes, I love you, Myra.”

Richie feels a slight pang of sorrow at hearing those three words said to someone else, but it’s mostly drowned out by the vicious satisfaction he takes in how Eddie had to force them out. _He never looked that way when he said it to me_ , his brain snarls.

… And yeah, there’s no way of reasoning his way out of that one. He’s jealous. Sue him.

Eddie quickly hangs up after that and starts scooting over to make room on the couch. “Hey, Rich.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt—”

“Sit down, asshole.”

Richie bites down hard on his lip to control his smile and complies.

As soon as he sits down, Eddie’s wrinkling his nose and making a big show of leaning away. “God, you reek.”

“Aw, Eds, I forgot how much of a sweet talker you are,” Richie coos, purposefully leaning back into Eddie’s space. “Tell me more, tell me more.” He grins as Eddie gags and whacks his arm to get him away.

“I wouldn’t have invited you to sit down if I knew you’d been fucking smoking,” Eddie whines. (Even though they both know that’s a lie.)

“This feels like discrimination of some kind, should I be calling a human rights lawyer?” 

“Please, _please_ tell me you haven’t been smoking for 20 years, Richie, that’s so fucking stupid,” Eddie says, and his voice is filled with disdain, but genuine worry gleams in his eyes as he squints at Richie. It makes his heart skip a little. “I don’t think even you’re oblivious enough to not realize all the fatal effects those have on your body, but if you are, god help me,” he starts pulling up Google on his phone, “I’ll fucking read them out right here and now, Richie, don’t test me—”

And normally Richie would egg him on. But it’s been so long since he’s had this fierce concern directed at him, so long since he’s been reminded just how protective Eddie can be, and he’s a little weak from it. “Yes, Eddie, I do realize, we’ve had this conversation about—hang on, let me think, I want to get the number right—uh, 37,000 times. I haven’t smoked since I gave it up when we were juniors.” _After you refused to kiss me anymore if I kept smoking_ , he doesn’t say. “Tonight was just, you know. To settle the nerves about the upcoming demon clown battle and everything.”

A kind of sober understanding settles over Eddie’s face and he nods a little. “Okay, I’ll give you that.” Then he glares at Richie again. “But if you make it a habit again, you’re going to have worse things to worry about.”

“Don’t worry, Eddie, you scare me more than that circus bitch ever could.”

“I meant the lung cancer, dipshit,” Eddie scoffs but he’s grinning. Richie’s helpless to do anything but grin back. 

Then he’s suddenly acutely aware of how close they’ve ended up sitting, their legs barely an inch away from brushing together. And Richie wants nothing more than to tug Eddie closer.

It’s not even just that he wants to. They’ve fallen back into their old ways so naturally, so seamlessly, it feels almost instinctive for Richie to take them to the next step. To reach for Eddie, wrap an arm around his shoulder, pull him flush against his side, nuzzle his neck and kiss his temple, lay them down on this shitty couch and hold him tight, drifting off to the sound of Eddie’s voice murmuring sweet nothings into his hair.

And well, he doesn’t have the strength to move over at all; just enough to shove his hands in his pockets and scold himself. _You can’t do that anymore. He’s not yours._

If Eddie notices Richie’s internal crisis, he doesn’t draw attention to it, instead just glances down at his phone. 

“Everything okay with the missus?” Richie asks, partially because he can tell Eddie wants to talk about it, and partially because Richie is sort of dying to hear all the ways things are decidedly _not_ okay with the missus. And yeah, can’t defend that either. He’s jealous. Sue him!

Eddie snorts, and it’s a bitter sound. “No, she’s pissed. I kind of just… took off without telling her.”

“Oof,” Richie oh so eloquently responds.

Eddie doesn’t call him out on it. He’s used to Richie spouting dumb shit after all. “And she’s pretty…” he trails off for a moment, eyebrows scrunched like he’s trying to choose his next words carefully, “ _clingy_ on a normal day, so. It’s not great.”

Richie nods a little, muttering a half-hearted, “Sorry, man,” that sure sounded more whole-hearted in his head. Eddie just shrugs in response, and Richie desperately tries to fucking _stop reading into things he doesn’t fully understand._

Again, he fails.

“Are you…” Eddie starts then stops. “Do you have… anyone like…” He gestures at his phone. When Richie just raises an eyebrow in confusion, Eddie huffs and says, “Are you seeing anyone?”

And Richie wants to break down laughing. Because the last guy he had tried to date, four fucking years ago, had been short and neurotic and hotheaded yet kind, just like every guy he’s ever shown interest in since freshman year of college. And, just like all the others, Richie called it quits after only a few weeks, for no discernible reason other than the constant feeling of his world being off kilter. And the lurch in his stomach that told him he was doing something wrong.

He had never understood why that always happened.

Though he certainly does now.

“Nope,” is the easy answer, and thus the one he gives Eddie, popping the ‘p.’

Eddie nods, then smirks and shoots back a teasing “Sorry, man,” in a pretty good Richie impression. Richie laughs and waves him off.

They fall into a silence that isn’t necessarily comfortable, but not really tense or awkward either. They’re both just thinking. Richie about how much he wants to plant his head on Eddie’s shoulder and kiss his neck, and Eddie about god knows what.

When Richie glances back at him, Eddie’s staring into the distance again, eyes looking glassy and faraway. His knee is bobbing again and he’s twisting his fingers together, and it’s all just so painfully familiar to Richie.

Eddie has always been loudmouthed and honest and prone to oversharing, so no one would ever believe Richie if he said so, but there were actually things Eddie _didn’t_ rave about to anyone who would listen. Things that he was always scared to address, things he just couldn’t talk about with everyone.

But he always could with Richie.

And Richie wants to do now what he always did then: snuggle up against Eddie and run slow, gentle fingers along his face, caressing his cheek and smoothing out the frustrated lines in his forehead, the only way Richie could ever communicate that he was there for Eddie, that he could trust Richie with anything and Richie would be gentle. _I’m here, Eddie. You can tell me anything, you can trust me again._

Maybe, just maybe, Eddie hears this, because then he’s muttering, “I’m on fucking meds again. Pills I don’t need… and lists of food I can’t eat, and allergies I don’t have…” He trails off a little, his frown deepening. “I never even questioned it, I just… because Myra told me I needed…” He pauses, then sighs, twisting his fingers together tighter. “I don’t need to take all those fucking meds, Rich.”

Richie blinks a couple times, processing all that, then hears himself say, “So, stop.”

He winces at himself, for fucking spouting off an option like that like it’s the simplest thing in the world to do. But Eddie just absently replies, “I did, I flushed them all down the toilet after we got back from the restaurant,” still staring off into space.

And then it’s exactly like it was 27 years ago, Richie’s heart bursting with so much pride it takes every ounce of self-control not to lean forward and kiss Eddie. Instead he just smiles at him (and dammit, he can feel how besotted the smile sits on his face, but he’s forgotten how to tone it down—that was never a concern in the last years he knew Eddie) and says warmly, “That’s my Eds.”

That seems to snap Eddie out of whatever trance he had fallen in. He turns to Richie and just looks at him, eyes wide. Richie replays what he just said and _shit shit shit_ , that was too far, that was too much. But before he can divert their attention from it, Eddie’s turning back away with a muttered “Don’t call me that,” and a soft, pleased little smile.

Younger Richie thought there could be no accomplishment more satisfying than making Eddie smile like that. Now, after a couple decades of life experience and a decent number of worthwhile accomplishments, he finds he still firmly holds that opinion.

“How have you been, Rich?” Eddie asks, tone thoughtful until it shifts into that of an Eddie who is absolutely not about to entertain even a second of Richie bullshit right now. “Like, really?” When Richie turns to him, Eddie is looking at him with a deep, assessing stare. Like maybe if he squints hard enough he can do a complete Richie scan and suss out every detail he needs. 

It always used to fluster Richie whenever Eddie looked at him like that, startled that Eddie even _wanted_ to know him that well. It still does.

“Fine,” Richie answers. And he means it, he really has been… fine. “Why do you ask?” Richie counters, eyes darting to his shoes.

“You seem different,” Eddie says, not unkindly but like the fact bothers him. Like the fact really, really bothers him. 

And Richie knows what he means. Because they all were different, at least a little. But honestly, Richie more so than the rest of them. He presented himself as someone ravenous for mere attention, regardless of what kind it was, but really, he had always craved acceptance—wholehearted and genuine by people who really _got_ him and wanted him. He was extraordinarily lucky to have been granted that at so young an age, and nowadays he felt, and apparently acted, like a much duller version of himself after years of being separated from the only ones who ever really gave it to him. From the Losers. From Eddie. 

“Yeah, I guess I am.” Richie answers honestly, then looks back at Eddie with a smirk. “That’s probably a relief, right?” He teases, trying to goad Eddie back into their status quo, giving him ample room and permission to playfully insult him again.

Eddie just looks at him for a few moments too long, then sadly smiles. “No. It isn’t.”

Before Richie can even begin to process what _that_ just made him feel, Eddie is barreling on. “Rich, why did we drift apart?”

Richie blinks a couple times and answers simply, “Because we forgot each other.”

“But we _just_ forgot, right?” Eddie asks a little desperately, brows furrowed as though he’s wracking his brain like Richie had hours ago in the bathroom, searching for some sort of falling out, some sort of fight. “That’s all it was?”

He feels a wave of grief wrack through his chest at being reminded of what happened to them, but it’s coupled with warm relief. Relieved that Eddie’s so concerned about the way things ended between them. That even if he can’t have an Eddie who loves him, he can still have one that _cares_ , that wants to be on good terms with him.

He’ll take that over nothing any goddamn day of the week.

“Yeah,” Richie answers softly. Because it’s not a question for him anymore. Because he knows for certain. Because he remembers everything leading up to their end. _Because nothing else in this world would have made me let you go._ “That’s all it was.”

<><><>

They were together almost an entire semester.

When they graduated high school and left Derry for college, Richie to L.A. and Eddie to New York, they agreed on long distance and promised to call each other every single day. And they kept that up without fail for a couple weeks.

Then things started to get foggy.

Richie would often go three or four days just going about his life, busy stretches of college activity, never remembering that there was something else he was supposed to be doing. Then, out of nowhere, he’d feel a sharp kick to the stomach, a jolt of _oh shit, Eddie_ , and then he was dropping everything to call him, frantic and queasy and stuttering apologies for ignoring his boyfriend. But Eddie was never mad, always assured Richie that he had gotten sidetracked too. 

And just as often the reverse happened, Eddie calling him up, rambling on and on about how sorry he was he went so long without calling. And Richie just tried to calm him down, desperately trying not to think too hard about why he hadn’t been thinking about Eddie in the time they hadn’t talked.

(He tried especially hard not to think about the instances where Eddie sounded confused for a few moments too long when he picked up Richie’s call. Or the instances where he himself would pick up the phone and hear Eddie’s voice on the other end and have to work hard to place who the hell he was talking to.)

They kept up that kind of sporadic routine for a few months, always talking for an hour or so but avoiding mentioning how little they seemed to know about each other. Richie knew Eddie was fierce and sweet, and he knew how much the two of them liked to argue. But as time went on, he realized Eddie had never told him his favorite genre of music, or what his family was like, or where he grew up. And Richie reasoned that there was no harm in asking, that those were things he should know about someone he felt this much admiration for, but he always felt oddly resistant to the idea, like that was something he shouldn’t do. Something he didn’t need to do.

Then December rolls around, just before finals, and Richie’s sat on his bed, a tight knot of anxiety in his stomach, wracking his brain and trying to remember how he had met this boy. How long have they known each other? How did he get Eddie’s number if Eddie had never even been to L.A.? Why the hell did he care about talking to Richie? This was so weird, he barely knows this boy.

But he loves him. God, Richie loves him so much.

He hardly thought about Eddie these days, admittedly, but every time he did, his chest practically flooded with affection. Every time he heard Eddie’s voice, he smiled harder than he did anywhere else. And well, Richie doesn’t think he should give up something like that just because he doesn’t know this kid’s last name.

He stands and crosses to his desk, plopping down and dialing the number he’s got written on an old sticky note next to the phone. And when Eddie picks up, he recognizes Richie’s voice right away and Richie’s grin is so wide it hurts his face.

They catch each other up on the few days they’ve had, and chat about practically nothing at all, and bicker and bicker and bicker, and, not for the first time, Richie wishes he could see Eddie’s smile, because he knows he’s doing it too. 

Then Eddie has to go, he’s got a shift at work in half an hour. But before he does, he rifles through his schedule and tries to pinpoint the next time he can call. Richie can hear the rustle of pages and some rapid, distracted pen clicking underneath Eddie’s muttering, and it makes him chuckle a little.

“God, I’m going to be so fucking busy, this is insane,” Eddie grumbles. “I don’t think I’ll have time to call you until after finals are over. That’s, what…” There’s a pause as Eddie counts under his breath. “Shit, eight days, Rich, I’m sorry.”

“Hey, don’t sweat it, I’m in the same boat over here, Eds.” 

“The _moment_ we’re both done with our last tests, I want you on this phone for no less than four hours.”

“Yes, sir,” Richie purrs, drawing out the ‘r.’

Eddie makes sure to ignore that. “And every 20 minutes you have to tell me how much you’ve missed me.”

“Sure thing, my love,” Richie agrees, then drops his voice back into the deep, faux sultry purr. “Now tell me what you want me to be wearing.”

“Oh my god, don’t make it weird,” Eddie sighs.

“You’re the one that got me going with that sexy, authoritative voice.”

“I’ve been speaking in my normal, everyday voice this entire time.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Eddie snaps, voice pitching up an octave. Richie’s not quite sure how, but he knows that means Eddie’s blushing.

There’s a pause while Richie cackles, then Eddie’s saying, voice soft and thoughtful, “And then we’ll see each other in Portland, I guess.”

Mike had been the one to plan the trip.

(After all, he had been the only who _could_ plan the trip.)

And when Richie picked up the phone to a deep, gentle, “Hi Richie, it’s Mike,” Richie had been too bewildered to do anything but blurt out, “Mike who?”

The line had gone quiet for a moment, then Mike answered with a hesitant, nervous, “Mike Hanlon?” 

Richie blinked for a minute, ready to hang up, and then it hit him. Not a memory, really, but an almost overwhelming wave of familiarity. An unexplained but insistent sensation of _yes, you know this person._ It’s powerful enough that he doesn’t even think to question it. “MIKE, shit, yeah. Sorry, dude, hi! How the fuck are you?”

“Doing a lot better, Rich, thanks,” Mike replied, relief palpable in his voice. “Hey, listen, I’ve been talking to the others and we’re thinking of meeting up over your guys’ winter break, in Portland? I found us a decent motel, I can pay for the rooms, and I’m making a list of some things we could do. Would you be available?”

 _What others?_ Richie wants to ask. But he doesn’t want to sound dumb, so he just bites his tongue and coordinates dates with Mike.

(The Losers had all promised to keep in touch with each other, of course they did. But it had been a slightly more nonchalant pact than the one Richie made with Eddie. They had all reluctantly agreed that they were adults now, with busy adult lives, and they were realistically bound to have less time for each other. But they were still determined, with promises to send each other lots of postcards and letters, and a call every weekend they were free.

It had only taken a month for Richie to lose them.)

A couple days later, Richie had mentioned a trip back east to see his old friend Mike to Eddie, who had interrupted with “Mike Hanlon?”

“Yeah. Wait, you know Mike?”

“Yeah, I’m going on that trip too.”

And that was… weird, right? Weird and convenient and absolutely worth discussing in greater detail. But the excitement at the thought of getting to see each other in person for the first time quickly washed away any confusion, and they didn’t question it further.

Now Richie feels his grin melt into something downright dopey, and okay, for once he’s actually glad this is just over the phone. “Yeah, I guess you will.”

“I’m excited to m—” Eddie cuts himself off and Richie knows it’s because he was about to say “meet you.” Richie knows this because he’s almost said the same thing several times. “I’m excited to see you,” Eddie corrects.

“Me too.” _I can’t wait to see what you look like_ , Richie doesn’t say, because, like always, he feels like he’s supposed to already know.

And maybe he did. He had a framed picture on his desk, of a teenage boy with fluffy black hair and big brown eyes grinning wide and beautiful and flipping off the camera. Most of the time he would glance at the picture and have not even a single idea of who the hell it was. But his heart always leapt when he saw it, and whenever Richie was on the phone he realized it was the same kind of leap it did talking to Eddie, so he couldn’t help but make the correlation sometimes. He couldn’t wait to see if he was right.

“Alright, well,” Eddie says, voice soft and a little bashful. “I’ll see you soon, Richie.”

Richie responds with a loud, obnoxious kiss sound into the receiver and grins at Eddie’s half laugh, half scoff. “See you soon, Eds.” 

But they didn’t. They woke up one day during winter break, couldn’t fathom why they had plane tickets to fucking Maine booked for that day, and promptly cancelled their flights.

It would be another 22 years before they even spoke again.

<><><>

True to his word, Mike has the seven of them up and trekking through Derry at the crack of dawn, leading them through town and into the Barrens. They’re all chatting idly as they do, Stan and Bev shooting curious looks at Richie’s uncharacteristic silence. He’s doing his best to listen, but he can’t bring himself to contribute to the conversation right now, too preoccupied glancing at Mike, guilt thrashing in his stomach.

He can’t stop thinking about the memory he stumbled upon last night: Mike trying to get all the Losers back together that winter break and none of them showing up because they’d all forgotten. But Mike hadn’t. Mike remembered everything. He must have felt so alone, trapped in this motherfucking town for 22 years, all the while thinking his best friends in the world had abandoned him, and god, Richie’s gonna be sick. 

Judging by the tortured look on Eddie’s face as he also glances at Mike, his train of thought must have led him to the same conclusion last night. 

They’re in the middle of the woods when Eddie stops dead in his tracks and calls out, “Hey Mike?” The group turns to look at him, slowly coming to a stop at the look on his face. Eddie gulps and says quietly, voice wobbling, “I’m so sorry we didn’t come to Portland.”

And, not for the first or last time, Richie thanks God for Eddie Kaspbrak.

Mike rears back in surprise. The others blink for a moment, looking lost; then the remembrance comes crashing down on them with visible horror and guilt coloring their faces. They all turn to Mike and stumble over each other to echo the apology.

“Guys, guys, it’s okay, really,” Mike says over them, sounding emotional and overwhelmed. “I figured out pretty quickly that people forget when they leave Derry, I knew it wasn’t personal, it’s fine—”

“We are not letting this happen again,” Ben interrupts. They all turn to look at him in surprise because they’ve never heard him sound so _furious_. “We are getting you the fuck out of this town and we are _not_ letting this shit happen to us again.”

Then Richie’s full on gaping, because he’s positive he’s never heard Ben curse either.

Richie glances back at Mike and sees tears start to well up in his eyes. And he does what he always does when he sees any of his friends get emotional: promptly freak out.

“Oh my god, I cannot handle anyone crying right now, myself included,” Richie groans dramatically. “Group hug _now_ so I don’t have to look at any of your stupid faces.”

Most of them snort at him, a little derisively, but immediately comply, surrounding Mike in a hug. And it’s pretty damn awkward, seven grown adults in the middle of a forest—each of them larger than the last time they did something like this—attempting to hold each other, heads bonking and arms whacking into each other. But they’re all still feeling the aftershocks of last night’s intense relief at being back together, so no one really gives a shit, so long as they get to be close.

As they break away several moments later, Richie steps towards Mike and rubs a gentle hand on his shoulder, the same way Mike always did to him. Mike gives him a soft, grateful smile in return.

“Alright, guys,” he says, voice still a little weak, “we’re almost there.”

Eddie allows them all exactly one minute of looking around the clubhouse in sentimental awe before eyeing the spot a piece of the ceiling had fallen when they first came down here and losing his shit. “Dear _lord_ , you guys, what the fuck were we thinking?! Look at this place, look how precarious this is,” he exclaims, squinting up at a perfectly secure beam with an expression like he just smelled spoiled milk. “This place is a fucking mass grave waiting to happen, I knew I was an idiot for letting us hang out down here, what was I thinking?” He shoots a crazed glance to Ben, who just stares back at him resignedly.

Richie tunes Eddie out—lovingly—as he looks around, fond nostalgia warming his stomach. Then his eyes fall on the hammock.

That _fucking_ hammock.

Honestly, the Losers had been right to tease Eddie about that first day they got it, he really had been obvious. So obvious even _Richie_ noticed; that day was one of the few instances of Richie’s pining era where he considered the possibility that Eddie might like him back. Richie had implied – honestly just implied—that the shower caps were stupid, and Eddie had ripped his own off like Richie had just told him Stan had sneezed all over it during a life-threatening bout of pneumonia, even though the other Losers looked at Richie like he was an idiot. (Which he was, he couldn’t even count the number of times spiders fell into his hair down here, like they were specifically trying to spite him.) And then, of course, the whole joining-Richie-in-the-hammock thing. And the whole giggling-at-Richie’s-lame-joke thing. And the whole shoving-his-foot-in-Richie’s-face-to-make-him-pay-attention-to-him thing. 

But overshadowing that day is another memory. The two of them wrapped up in the hammock together, Eddie on his back and Richie curled up next to him, half on top of him, arms circling his waist and legs tangled together. Richie playfully begging for a kiss and Eddie loudly refusing, for the benefit of the other Losers’ teasing Richie (except for Stan, who ignored them entirely, eyes rolled to the ceiling). But as soon as something else caught the other Losers’ attention, Eddie pushed Richie’s curls off his forehead and kissed him there, soft and quick, then leaned back to smile at him, eyes sparkling. And Richie grinned up at him like an idiot and snuggled closer.

When Richie tunes back in to the present, he realizes Eddie’s stopped his ranting. He turns around to find Eddie staring at the hammock too, face carefully blank. Feeling Richie watching him, he glances up to meet Richie’s eyes then quickly turns away.

 _He’s ashamed_ , and the words hit the inside of his skull so hard, it sends a fierce wave of pain reverberating down into his chest. _He hasn’t brought it up because he wants to pretend it never happened, he can’t stand acknowledging it, he can’t stand facing these memories and he can’t stand facing your desperate ass that can’t move on._

He has to wrench his eyes away from both Eddie and the hammock. He can feel something cracking inside him, a deep fissure splitting through him, and if he continues thinking like this, he’s going to completely crumble apart.

He looks around at the others to see that Bill has stumbled across Stan’s old shower caps and is passing them around, Stan watching with a soft smile. 

And despite everything, when Richie reaches for the one proffered to him, he feels himself smile too. “Alright, what are we doing here, Mikey?” Richie asks carefully, a little desperate to move forward and distract himself, but not wanting to disrupt the tender energy surrounding them.

“Well, the ritual requires tokens, artifacts from that summer we must sacrifice. We need to find those, but…” Mike gently places a pink cap on Stanley’s head. “I just wanted to show you all this place first.”

***

If Richie’s being honest, he still doesn’t understand this weirdass ritual, but whatever. Mike and Bill seem to have a firm grasp on whatever the fuck is going on, which is pretty par for the course, so that’s good enough for him. 

Despite Richie and Eddie’s very reasonable, intelligent, valid points, they all split up. Stan and Mike pair up to find their tokens, everyone still resistant to the idea of leaving Stan alone, but everyone else sucks it up and agrees to go by themselves. 

Richie doesn’t really know what exactly it is he’s looking for, nor what it is he’s supposed to be remembering, but he has a weird buzzing intuition about where he should be going, promptly followed by an ominous wave of nausea at the not-yet-realized memory, so naturally he starts procrastinating hard. He sits alone outside the clubhouse, lost in thought, all the others having already left.

Except for Bill, apparently.

“You’re w-wasting daylight, Trashm-mouth,” Bill says, sitting down next to Richie. “Sh-shouldn’t you be off on your self-discovery f-field trip by now?”

Bill’s stutter has come back full force since they started talking about Pennywise again. Which is a heavy load of symbolism that makes Richie’s heart hurt, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little happy to hear it again. He’d always found it endearing.

“Well, yeah, but so should you, fearless leader. How do you expect me to be my best self when this is the kind of example you set for your followers?”

Bill elbows him in the side but doesn’t retort, clearly feeling the urge to delay the inevitable too.

They sit in comfortable silence for a couple minutes, until, surprisingly, Bill is the one to shatter it. “He doesn’t re-remember,” he says.

“Who doesn’t remember what?” Richie mumbles. He knows exactly who and what Bill’s talking about, but a part of him just really wants to hear more confirmation this isn’t all in his head. Not that he doesn’t trust Mike and Stan—the former being the only one to have remembered everything this whole time, and the latter being the second least likely Loser to bullshit him—but he has a gut feeling that he will feel even better about it if Big Bill says it too.

“E-Eddie. You two. T-together. Eddie d-doesn’t remember you two w-were together,” Bill clarifies with absolute confidence.

… Huh. Guess Richie’s gut knows what it’s talking about every once in a while.

And god, he so desperately wants to believe him. That Eddie’s memory just hasn’t fully caught up yet. That he’s still a few episodes behind on _The Richie and Eddie Show_ , so close to the big season finale plot twist.

But then he sees in his mind that moment with the hammock, where Eddie clearly remembered _something_ and couldn’t stand to look at Richie as a result, and he just can’t let himself be that naïve. 

“He’s married, Bill. To a woman,” Richie retorts, voice carefully flat. “It’s super awkward to unexpectedly see your ex-boyfriend from 22 years ago when you’re married. To a woman. He’s just avoiding addressing it to make it less awkward.”

Bill snorts loudly. “Yes, because Eddie K-Kaspbrak is exactly the type of person to avoid s-saying what’s on his mind so no one’s uncom-uncomfortable.”

And that’s… a hell of a point, Riche has to admit.

“I’m not s-saying he’d be… trying to g-get back together or s-something,” he says that part hesitantly, almost sheepishly, like he’s wary about getting the idea in Richie’s head. Richie tries to telepathically let him know not to sweat it, that he’s already constructed, like, eight different fantasies about that very idea happening. “But,” Bill continues, “there’s no way he wouldn’t have s-said _something_. He doesn’t remember e-everything.”

“And that information made absolutely no impact on the self-esteem of the middle-aged, hack comedian,” Riche deadpans, lifting an imaginary toast to Eddie Kaspbrak.

“C-come on, you know how hard this s-stuff always was for him to process,” Bill gently reprimands him.

And yeah, Richie does, and he feels a sharp pang of guilt for making the situation about himself.

When he was young, Richie had shoved all “this stuff” down as deep as he could shove it in the hopes that it could be ignored, but he always _knew_. As soon as he was old enough to understand things like sexuality and attraction, he _knew_ he was gay and in love with Eddie.

Eddie’s side of things was a whole ‘nother story.

“It’s not p-personal, Rich,” Bill continues. “I think he’s just re-repressing it.”

Bill doesn’t give him any more opportunities to refute him, standing up and looking down at Richie with that stern expression Richie is oh so familiar with. “You sh-should talk to him.”

“Glad to see 20 years off the clock has had no effect on yours and Stan’s ability to nag me,” Richie grumpily mutters. “Don’t know what I’d do without my two doting dads.” But he says this part with a smile. Because he does know, and he prefers this much more.

Bill snorts and pats the top of Richie’s head. “Call me if you n-need anything, Rich.” 

Richie watches him leave then heaves a dramatic sigh to the forest, pushing himself up and following Bill’s lead, like the doting little dumbass sheep he is.

He takes off on the path back to town and lets his mind do what it does best: drift to Eddie. 

<><><>

In the end, there was no groundbreaking, life-altering change to convince Richie to come clean to Eddie. He just couldn’t take it anymore.

One night, the summer before junior year, he was kept up for hours, staring at the ceiling, thinking of Eddie. A common occurrence. And with each thought of Eddie’s big brown eyes, or his giggle, or his snappy comebacks, there ran a vicious, snarling undercurrent of _you don’t deserve him, he doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve Richie Tozier’s sick, twisted heart bleeding all over his hands._ Also business as usual.

But that night there was a louder voice in the corner of his mind, fixated on Eddie’s bravery and honesty, and chanting _he doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve to be lied to, doesn’t deserve your secrets, secrets and lies, secrets and lies, secrets and lies._

And as they all goof around in the clubhouse the next day, there’s just something about the way Eddie looks, bright eyed and beautiful and _trusting_ of Richie, trusting that his best friend isn’t a liar or a fraud or dirty and wrong, that he wouldn’t keep anything from him, that he would never dare be in love with him, and something inside Richie just snaps.

He can’t _take_ this anymore.

Before he can stop himself, he’s interrupting whatever the group conversation had been with a rushed, accidentally demanding, “Eds, come with me.”

His entire body immediately erupts into protest at this decision, stomach turning over and lungs constricting like they’re being squeezed and his brain—you know, the same one that was just last night actively encouraging him to do this—chanting _no no no no no no, Richie, NO_. But he’s already done it. All the other Losers turn to look at him, and there’s no way anyone’s going to let that kind of command slide without question, especially not someone as bullheaded as Eddie.

Speaking of.

Eddie, who notoriously hates being told what to do, especially by Richie, whirls to face him with a glare, mouth parting around some kind of “go fuck yourself” sentiment. But then he really gets a good look at Richie’s face. And lord, Richie doesn’t even want to know what he looks like right now, because immediately Eddie’s clamping his mouth shut and wearing what is easily the most concerned expression Richie has ever seen directed at himself. And that’s _really_ saying something. “Why, what’s wrong?” Eddie asks, wary and already a little frantic. 

“Nothing,” Richie assures. Completely unconvincingly, but he tries. “I just—” He catches Bev’s eye, and she’s watching him intently, like she knows what’s about to happen. She gives him just the barest of nods, unnoticeable to anyone else, and somehow it’s enough for Richie to force out, “I just want to show you something.”

Bev’s eyes light up and she grins at him proudly. The other boys all share glances with each other, understanding that clearly something involving Richie’s big, messy feelings is going down, but unsure quite what. (Richie never did tell any of them about the Kissing Bridge after all, only Beverly.) Then all five of them turn to look at Eddie.

He gives Richie an assessing squint, obviously hesitant to be alone with Richie when he’s behaving like this. Which is. More than fair. Then he’s up on his feet and walking to the clubhouse hatch with a forcedly nonchalant “Okay.”

Richie shoots Bev one last terrified look and she gently shoos him towards Eddie, smiling encouragingly. The other Losers do the same after observing Bev. Richie curses under his breath and scrambles out of the clubhouse after Eddie.

As soon as they’re alone, Eddie whips around to Richie. “What is it?”

Richie stumbles over his words for way too long before lamely gesturing at their bikes and muttering, “We should probably… take those. Quicker.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow in suspicion but complies without protest.

It’s easily the worst bike ride of Richie’s life. His lungs are absolutely burning in his chest from the physical exertion coupled with the sizable effort it’s taking to stave off any hyperventilating. Eddie trails behind him, trying to ask Richie where they’re going and faltering when Richie can’t stutter out an answer.

But they make it to the Kissing Bridge, Richie without passing out and Eddie without turning tail and fleeing from Richie’s crazy ass. After he dismounts his bike, Richie turns around to see that Eddie’s dismounted _right in front of_ their initials, his back to it as he looks expectantly at Richie. _Lord._

“So?” Eddie asks, voice slow and cautious. “What is it?”

“Um…” Richie rasps, and _fuck_ , he did not think this through, how the fuck is he supposed to preface this. “I just… well, it’s—I—”

“Richie, you’re shaking,” Eddie interrupts, sounding frantic again.

Richie glances down at himself and, yup, sure enough, his hands are trembling so badly he’s amazed he didn’t feel it. _Are you going numb?_ The Eddie-sounding voice in his head worries. _Are you having a stroke or something?_

“Huh,” is all Richie says in response.

That, _shockingly_ , does nothing to calm Eddie, who’s looking at him with so much raw, earnest concern it hurts a little. Then, bless his fucking heart, he shoots Richie a weak smile and tries to be the Richie in this situation, tries to make a dumb joke to lighten this terrible mood. “What, do you have a body here you need help hiding or something?” He chuckles a little, just as weak as the smile, and Richie could fucking kiss him… which decidedly does not help the shaking thing. “I mean, I don’t know why you asked _me_ ,” Eddie continues, “you know there’s no way in hell I’m going to be touching something like that, so I’m pretty fucking useless, unless I’m just here for emotional support or someth—”

And Richie has to do it right then, when Eddie’s distracted, or he’ll never do it. Without another word, he grabs Eddie’s shoulders and spins him around so he’s facing the bridge.

Eddie sputters a little in surprise and protest, until his eyes land on it. _R+E_. Then he’s abruptly cutting himself off and freezing in place, eyes going wide.

And Richie knows that he should really be adding _some_ sort of verbal commentary here, if not a full confession than a _I put that here three years ago, when this shitty town was just trying to stop me and I couldn’t let it happen_. Or even just something to let Eddie know that, for once in their lives, Richie wasn’t messing with him. _I know I’m always joking around, I know I can’t be real, but I promise you this is the most genuine thing I’ve ever done._

But he is positive that if he opens his mouth right now he is going to be sick.

Besides, he also knows he doesn’t really have to clarify that this is serious. Eddie’s a smart boy, and he knows Richie, better than anyone else ever has. He can see Richie on the verge of a mental breakdown then see an R and an E on the fucking Kissing Bridge and be able to connect the dots. 

Eddie proves this to him, that he understands what this means, that he knows it’s not a prank or tease, by continuing to not react at all. He’s still just staring at the bridge, body stiff, eyes wide and unblinking, and Richie can’t even try to read his facial expression. He’s not disgusted or angry, so that’s good, but at least those reactions would make sense.

The dead silence does absolutely nothing for Richie’s fraying nerves, and he’s hit with the sudden, urgent need for a distraction _fast_. He falls back on his oldest instinct, even knowing Eddie will see right through him. “Obviously I was going to write R+E’s Mom, but I ran out of steam and just kept it like that,” he jokes, but his voice is so weak and wobbly that it falls even flatter than he was expecting.

“Shut up, Richie,” Eddie recites back immediately, but it has none of the usual fire. It’s quiet and distracted, and his eyes stay glued to the bridge.

But Richie’s going to end up clawing his own hair out in that silence again, so he keeps going, he can’t stop himself. “Like, carving shit into wood is hard, man, my arm was aching for days—” 

“Richie, I seriously need you to shut up for a minute, okay?” Eddie says a little louder and desperate this time.

“But, I mean, I’m pretty used to getting a sore arm from thinking about your mom, so—” 

“ _Richie_ ,” and there it is, the good ol’ fiery irritation. Eddie finally turns to look at him, mouth and eyebrows set in indignation, but the same desperation from his voice swimming in his eyes.

And then all of a sudden, he’s right in front of Richie, hauling himself up on his tip toes, grabbing Richie’s face, and kissing him.

 _Oh_ , Richie thinks dumbly. Because there’s really no room for anything more profound or eloquent right now, not when his head kind of feels like the inside of a hornet’s nest someone just lobbed a rock at. 

The kiss lasts for barely a second before Eddie is pulling back, looking up at Richie in panic. Then, blink and you’ll miss it, the panic is wiped clean and replaced with a fierce determination that sends a shiver down Richie’s spine. Eddie nods once, seemingly to himself, then surges upward to kiss him again.

And Richie tries his best not to live like a cliché, he really does, but he cannot deny that he swoons and melts into the kiss like every romantic novel heroine ever. He’s pretty sure he hears harps and singing too, but he’s just going to chalk that up to delirium from how lightheaded he is all of a sudden, now that the kiss is really going. 

Eddie kisses passionately and a little too forcefully—well, a lot too forcefully, honestly, but somehow keeps the kiss from feeling too harsh, keeps it sweet. And it’s just so _Eddie_ , and Richie’s already obsessed, sighing lovesick and contented.

And for the first time today—the first time since he fell for Eddie—he feels like he can actually get this right. Maybe he can’t confess properly, he can’t express himself through words. But he can sure wrap his arms around Eddie’s waist and kiss him back, try his absolute damnedest to pour all his feelings into the press of his lips.

Eddie hums deep in his throat and digs his fingers into Richie’s hair, so Richie thinks he even manages to succeed. 

When they part, Richie keeps his eyes closed for a moment, fruitlessly trying to calm his heartrate a little. And when he opens them, Eddie is staring at his lips, his own eyes half-lidded.

 _That_ sends a deafening burst of static through Richie’s brain, clearly blowing out some important circuit, because he mumbles, “Wow, you’re almost as good of a kisser as your mom.” 

And he had distantly realized that that was not the right thing to say, but he dramatically miscalculated how much of an utterly _wrong_ thing to say it was.

Eddie’s eyes snap open fully and flood with so much white-hot lividity, Richie genuinely flinches. “Are you FUCKING kidding me, Richie?!”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry,” Richie rambles frantically, “I didn’t mean to say that one, force of habit, sorry.” 

“I’m going to kill you, I am absolutely going to kill you, yours is gonna be the fucking body to hide,” Eddie mutters darkly.

“Look, I was just kidding, it was great, you’re a much better kisser than your mom—”

“THE COMPLIMENT IS MEANINGLESS IF YOU’RE STILL IMPLYING YOU’VE KISSED MY MOTHER,” Eddie bellows at the top of his lungs, which is _very_ loud, because Eddie is, as a person, _very_ loud.

“Okay, _obviously_ I haven’t kissed your mother, Eddie! You’re the best and only person I’ve kissed!”

And what they just did finally seems to fully hit Eddie then. His eyes go wide, gleaming with panic again, his face pales, and he flinches away from Richie—completely this time, stumbling back a couple feet.

He stares at Richie for a couple more moments, then blinks rapidly and turns to pick up his bike. “I… I have to go, Rich, I’m sorry,” he blurts, not unkindly but like he’s already regretting the decision, then rides away.

And Richie’s not sure how long he stands there afterwards, but it’s definitely long enough that he can’t reasonably say he’s reacting particularly _well_ to everything that just happened.

Two days pass and Richie has heard nothing from Eddie, or the other Losers.

Well, the latter is because he’s holed himself in his room and won’t answer the phone that is clearly ringing for him, but.

And, yeah, later on he’ll be the first to admit that this response is pretty pathetic. But for now he’s blaming his bedridden solitude on the constant stomachache he has from all the conflicting emotions rattling around inside him. All because he’s thinking of Eddie and that stupid fucking bridge.

On the one hand, Eddie finally figured out who Richie is and what he’s been hiding, and he didn’t turn Richie away with disgust or hatred. He kissed Richie. And he liked it. Right? Richie didn’t think he was being cocky or delusional if he said Eddie liked the kiss. So that had to be good, right?

But on the other hand, Eddie kissed him, then panicked, ran away, and now won’t talk to Richie. Which was considerably less good.

And really, Richie is right on the edge of falling into despair and guilt and all that fun stuff for losing and upsetting his best friend, but he keeps holding himself back with the reminder that _Eddie_ kissed _him_! Eddie liked kissing him! For a couple perfect, blissful minutes, Richie’s feelings produced nothing but positive results!

Richie sighs, long and tired, and rubs his aching forehead. He just doesn’t understand how someone as forthright as Eddie can make him so fucking confused all of a sudden.

Suddenly, there’s a quick tapping on his window and Richie startles so hard he nearly falls off the bed. And lo and behold, there’s Eddie Kaspbrak, waiting outside his window.

His arms are crossed—not in anger, but like it’s an act of self-comfort, like he’s trying to hold himself together—and his face is twisted in anxiety. Like he’s maybe one wrong turn away from flying into more pale, wide-eyed panic.

Richie’s up on his feet in an instant, rushing over and throwing open the window. “Are you okay?” He asks, not bothering to hide the worry in his voice.

Eddie blinks at him. Then, all at once, the anxiety is melting off his face and in its place is his normal look of fond exasperation—though Richie can’t help but note the fondness is definitely outweighing the exasperation today. “You told me you like me, I kissed you, freaked out, ran away, and have been ignoring you for two days, and you’re asking _me_ if _I’m_ okay?” Eddie shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair, tugging on the ends a little. “God, why can’t you behave like a jackass when I need you to?”

Richie has no clue how to answer that, so he just mumbles, “Sorry?”

“Don’t apologize, _I’m_ sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sor—”

“I literally just spelled out all the reasons why I really fucking do, dickhead,” Eddie snaps but he’s smiling. And Richie’s so fucking happy to see him, so happy to see him acting like himself, and he smiles back. Eddie sighs a little, then gestures at Richie’s room. “You gonna let me in?” 

Richie scrambles out of the way then instinctively extends a hand to help Eddie. Eddie takes it and climbs into the room, then looks down at their joined hands until Richie’s brain catches up and he drops Eddie’s hand like it burned him.

Eddie closes the window behind him and sighs again. He turns back to Richie and says, “Can we talk about the… you know,” making some kind of vague hand wave as he does. 

And Richie’s pretty sure he’d rather go back into the sewers and fucking _ask_ Pennywise to haunt him with giant, terrifying statues again. But it’s common knowledge that whatever Eddie wants, Richie provides, so he nods and manages to croak out, “Yeah, sure.”

Richie sits down in his desk chair and Eddie perches on the bed across from him, placing his hands in his lap and wringing them. He opens his mouth to speak, glances at Richie, hesitates, drops his eyes down to the floor, then closes his mouth, looking nervous and uncertain all the while.

He repeats this a couple more times, and frankly the sight of an Eddie Kaspbrak who doesn’t know what to say disturbs Richie more than just straight up dead silence, so he blurts, “I shouldn’t have done it.”

Eddie’s head snaps up to look at him, the panic from the bridge in his eyes again. Richie quickly clarifies, “Carving the initials in the first place, I mean. It was lame and stupid, and… and just a really fucking dangerous gesture and I… I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable.”

Eddie gapes at him for a moment, then he’s almost frantically shaking his head. “No, n-no, Richie, you didn’t make me… I mean, you did, but not because I… I mean it’s—” he fumbles, then lets out a huff. “I just had no idea.”

 _Oh, sweet, score one for past Richie’s fucking dignity at least_ , is Richie’s first thought. And he can’t really think of anything different to say to that kind of statement from Eddie, so he just kind of expounds on that general train of thought with, “Yeah, you weren’t really supposed to. That was sorta the point of all the mom jokes and implying your breath smelt like a fucking sewer and stuff.”

“I mean,” Eddie grits out, scrunching his eyes closed the way he does when he’s tamping down his frustration. An expression Richie is intimately familiar with. “I had no idea about _me_.”

He opens his eyes and looks expectantly at Richie, who doesn’t really get it, but nods for him to continue, trying to look as encouraging as he can. It seems to work a little, Eddie relaxes his shoulders a bit. But he drops his eyes down to his wringing hands and keeps them there.

“I should have known. And maybe I would have under different circumstances, but my mother…” Eddie trails off for a second, nose wrinkling. “My mother’s always told me that people like them—” he abruptly cuts himself off, takes a shaky inhale, continues, “people like _us_ ,” and Richie swears his heart stops, “are nasty and disgusting and _sick_. And… I don’t know, I guess she got into my head like she always fucking does and I just… I never let myself…”

He finally looks back up at Richie. “I wasn’t scared of what you did on the bridge. I was scared of how happy it made me. And of how much I wanted to kiss you.” His eyes drop back down and, voice quiet, he says, “And of how much I liked it.”

And Richie registers that there’s a whole fucking lot of emotions he should be feeling right now, but he doesn’t feel anything except his incapacitated heart and a deep, resounding chant of _this isn’t happening, there’s no fucking way this is happening, absolutely no way you’re this fucking lucky_ pumping through his veins.

Eddie continues, “And I told myself it was a fluke or some bullshit, I don’t even know. But I haven’t stopped thinking about you and us and just… _everything_ , and I…” He forces out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh. “God, Rich, I’ve been so fucking gone on you for so long I can’t even trace back to when it started. And I’m such a fucking coward that I couldn’t even realize—”

“You’re not a coward.” Richie surprises himself when he starts talking, because he really, truly didn’t think he was going to be physically able to talk again for a good few days. His voice is hoarse, but tone firm, and it makes Eddie look up at him again. “I know how your mother is, I know how this town is. It’s so scary for people…” he hesitates like Eddie did, “people like us. This is one of the bravest things you’ve ever fucking done, Eds.”

Eddie stares at him, wide eyed and still a little bit scared, until something clicks into place behind his eyes and he looks determined, just like he did before he kissed Richie a second time. “I feel the same way you do, Richie, I—” he stops to gulp, but then he smiles, soft and so achingly genuine. “I like you too.”

And Richie finally accepts that this is actually happening, which brings back the hornets in his head, coupled with _something_ bubbly and ecstatic and borderline lethal swooping through his chest in a vicious loop.

“A-and I don’t know where we go from here or what you want,” Eddie continues, sounding nervous again, “but… if you want to try, you know…” another vague hand wave, “dating, or something… I’d like that.” He pauses then breaks into another soft smile. “I’d really like that.”

Then Richie’s launching himself out of his chair and kissing Eddie, who wastes no time in digging his fingers into Richie’s hair again and kissing him back with everything he has.

***

It was a few weeks after that before they went on their first date.

That isn’t to say that they didn’t see each other, of course they did. They hung out with the Losers often and carved themselves plenty of alone time together, but they weren’t really _dates_. It was all the same stuff as normal, driving around town in Richie’s crappy pickup and reading comics in their rooms when their parents weren’t home, just with the added bonus of making out. Like. A lot of making out.

Which was fine by Richie for as long as it took; forever, if that’s what Eddie wanted. He wasn’t about to rush Eddie or suggest anything he wasn’t comfortable with. He’d do anything if it made Eddie happy. 

But he couldn’t deny the little thrill that lit up his heart when Eddie was the one to bring up the idea of going on a proper _date_. And Richie had the perfect idea for what they could do. But regardless of his own excitement, he’s going to be a dick about it, so he elects to keep said idea to himself until Eddie demanded it from him, content to sprawl on his bed and watch Eddie talk himself out next to him.

Eddie has his notepad in front of him, brow furrowed and pencil tapping against his lip. He’s obviously cycling through romantic dates they’ve seen in movies and TV shows and trying to pick one a couple broke, teenaged, closeted gay boys in a boring, homophobic town can replicate. And obviously, he’s coming up with nothing.

“I guess we could just go to the movies? But we couldn’t hold hands or make out in the back of the theater, so what’s the point—”

Richie interrupts with a scandalized gasp. “ _Edward_ , you little minx, I had no idea you were into exhibitionism!”

“Oh my god, I’m _not_ , that’s, like, a _thing_ , that’s a perfectly normal, stereotypical teenage couple thing—”

“Look, I don’t support kinkshaming, babe, you don’t have to explain yourself to me—”

Eddie rips out a blank page from the back of the notebook, balls it up, and hurls it at Richie’s face.

“Well, where the fuck are your suggestions, wise guy?” Eddie demands, scowling at him. Richie can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. There it is. 

“My suggestion is why don’t you unclench a little, rein in your control freaky tendencies for one night, and have faith in your doting, unbearably handsome boyfriend.” He winks at Eddie. “He’s got this.”

Eddie cocks an eyebrow and, sarcasm dripping off every syllable, retorts, “Oh, does he?”

Richie dramatically gasps. “Your doting, unbearably handsome boyfriend cannot believe you doubt him like this!” He throws himself backward on the bed, flinging an arm over his eyes while Eddie sighs at the ceiling. “Don’t ya know he’s a romantic at heart, Eds?” Richie continues, throwing on his Southern Belle Voice. “Why, he’s had the perfect first date planned out since he was twelve years old, just _dying_ for the chance to sweep you off your feet, and you don’t TRUST him?” He uncovers his eyes and turns to Eddie with a pout and his regular voice back. “You’re a real heartbreaker, Eddie Spaghetti.”

And he waits for Eddie to shove him with an indignant “Oh fuck off, dickwad,” then cross his arms and snip, “Fine then, asshole, if you’re so great, put your money where your fucking trashmouth is.”

But because Eddie likes to ruin everything all the time anywhere, he just stares at Richie with wide, unblinking eyes for a few moments too long before quietly asking, “You’ve had something planned that long?”

 _Shit_ , he absolutely had not expected Eddie to take that part seriously. He forgets sometimes how easy it is for Eddie to see right through him, like he’s fucking transparent. Taken completely off guard, Richie, much like an absolute _idiot_ , stammers out, “It—uh… n-no?”

Eddie just looks at him for a few more beats, with an expression Richie is absolutely not emotionally mature enough to decipher, then ducks his head and clears his throat. “This better be fucking amazing, jackass,” he snips without any bite, obviously just trying to get them back to their comfortable status quo, while passing him the notebook.

Richie sits up with a wolfish grin, doing his damnedest to mimic Eddie’s neat, loopy penmanship as he writes down “My doting, unbearably handsome boyfriend’s got this,” then cackles as Eddie rips the notebook out of his hand and whacks him on the shoulder with it.

“I’m not loving this new trend of me having to blindly fucking follow you everywhere,” Eddie grumbles for the fifteenth time this week, climbing out of his window and hopping down next to where Richie leans against the house.

He had griped all week about Richie keeping all the details of the date from him, insisting how much he hates surprises (which he knows Richie knows he actually doesn’t), only momentarily giving it a rest whenever Richie called him a control freak again (which was every time).

“It worked out well for you last time,” Richie shrugs, grabbing Eddie’s hand and leading him to his truck parked on the street. “You had the honor of taking the lip virginity of Derry’s most eligible bachelor.” Richie pauses to grin as Eddie’s nose scrunches in disgust at the phrase ‘lip virginity.’ “It’ll be worth it.”

Eddie ducks his head and smiles soft and pleased at that, before noticing Richie watching him. Then he’s elbowing Richie’s side, their hands still clasped together, with a performative, “It better be, do you have any idea how long it’s going to take to get my sleep schedule back in order, I’ve kept that shit pristine for years, Rich.”

He had complained even more when Richie mentioned that the date would be starting at 11:30 pm, going off about melatonin or something. But never once did he actually tell Richie, “Fuck you, I’m not doing that,” so it was fine.

Richie opens the passenger door with a flourish, bow, and a British “After you!” Eddie rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother tamping down a grin, so mission accomplished.

Eddie watches him like a hawk as he circles around to his door, only relaxing again once Richie’s seated in the vehicle. And that’s a pretty typical action for this time of night, for Eddie or any of the Losers actually, but it still makes Richie’s heart leap a little anyway.

For a good long while, the Losers had all flat out refused to go tromping around Derry in the dark, for obvious reasons. After three years of inactivity, they’ve gotten comfortable with it again, but they’re all still, you know, traumatized, and as such, wary. They tend to look over their shoulders more than any other Derry teenagers would, not to mention the fact that they all bring some form of weapon out with them.

Richie has a baseball bat on his backseat floor as they speak. 

Which reminds him, oh right, he’s got spoilers back there. “Don’t look in the backseat,” Richie tells Eddie as he closes his door.

Eddie whips his head to the backseat so quickly it’s a miracle his neck didn’t crack, the little shit. Richie leans over and obnoxiously waves his hand in Eddie’s face to distract him. “Four years in the fucking making, Edward, why must you insist on ruining my hard work?!”

Eddie smacks his hand away and miraculously concedes, facing forward and crossing his arms with a pout. “I’m not built for this kind of shit.”

“What, fun? Yeah, tell me ‘bout it, cupcake.”

“What the fuck did you just call me?” Eddie asks, pure confusion coloring his tone rather than offense, his nose scrunching again.

“Oh, I’m trying out petnames. Couples always have cutesy petnames for each other, right?” Richie leans forward to start the car, then turns back to Eddie with a flutter of his eyelashes. “Do you like it?”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Aw, that’s okay, angelface, we’ll find one that sticks. I’ve got a list.”

Eddie heaves a weary sigh and longingly gazes back at his house. “Is it too late to crawl back into my room?”

Richie makes a show of locking the car doors, then turns back with a solemn, “Yes.” He shifts into drive and pulls out into the street, grinning to himself while Eddie fakes a horrified gasp and flies into a rant about abduction and lawsuits.

They continue talking and bickering and generally goofing around while driving through Derry, but Richie’s eyes start glancing up at the sky the closer they get to the town limits.

For whatever reason, you couldn’t see stars well in Derry. They were always too muted and dull, like a cloud of smog was perpetually covering them. It was fucking bizarre, and Richie had 100% started attributing it to the freaky clown shit that has gone down in this town.

But fortunately, that wasn’t a problem at the large hill a few miles outside of Derry that Richie’s driving them to.

The stars are already brighter just moments after passing the “Leaving Derry” sign. Eddie takes note right away, cutting himself off mid-sentence and gluing his eyes to his window. Richie bites down on a smile.

Eddie’s always loved the stars. Ever since they first started learning about astronomy in the sixth grade, he’s been hooked. He’s memorized countless constellations, bought about half a dozen different books over the years, as well as a telescope, which had made him so crestfallen when he discovered it didn’t work well in Derry. 

But tonight, as Richie parks up on the hill, the stars are closer and brighter than Eddie has ever seen them before, and he’s transfixed. 

“Hang here for a couple minutes, I’ll let you know when it’s ready, okay?” Richie honestly startles himself; he’s never heard his voice sound that soft. Eddie apparently doesn’t notice the tone, just numbly nods at the words.

It takes a couple trips to get everything from the backseat into the truck bed, considering he brought almost every pillow and blanket the Tozier household owns, and his bigass cassette player. He spreads the pillows and blankets out carefully, making sure to cover each inch of the bed, assuring anyplace Eddie chooses to sit is comfortable, plops down the player and a couple grocery bags, then heads to the passenger side.

He opens the door for Eddie with another bow, and he finally looks back at Richie. “How did you find this place?” He asks, awed. 

“My dad brought me here once. We were driving back from a trip to see my uncles, and we stopped here for a little bit to take in the sights.” And the whole time, all twelve-year-old Richie could think about was how much Eddie would love being here.

As soon as they made it back home, Richie had asked his dad for directions on how to get back to this spot. His dad wrote them down on a napkin and later, tucked away in his room, Richie circled them with a bright red marker and added a note of “Take Eddie here someday.”

And he had meant it platonically in the moment (or at least he had convinced himself he did), but as time went on, he couldn’t stop thinking about it being so much more. Thinking of all the other little things he could do to make Eddie smile, of getting to hold Eddie’s hand and giggle in each other’s ears; of kissing him without fear or hesitation, safe and sound underneath the stars in their own private little world away from Derry.

They climb into the truck bed, settling against the pillows and throwing blankets across their laps and shoulders. Eddie immediately notices the cassette player on his left and the plastic bags Richie blocks with his body as he sits down, but just raises an eyebrow, patiently waiting for Richie to explain.

“’Kay,” Richie claps his hands together, only then realizing how sweaty they are, and only _then_ realizing how fucking nervous he suddenly is. _Right, this is really happening. This is a date, a date with my boyfriend. I’m on a date with Eddie Kaspbrak, my boyfriend_. “So tonight’s agenda: the main feature is, you know,” he gestures lamely up at the sky. “Stars and, uh… just, uh, you know…”

“Gazing?” Eddie teases with a grin.

Richie snaps his fingers and points at Eddie, trying to ignore the blush he can feel rising in his cheeks. “Yup, yup, excellently put, Edward, the main feature is stargazing.” Eddie nods approvingly, still grinning. “And I made us a little snack,” Richie continues, holding up a plastic bag and fishing out a couple bottles of water, some napkins, and a pan of brownies. Eddie’s eyes light up and his grin turns a little wild.

Richie created these monstrosities about a year ago: brownies made with three different kinds of chocolate chips (milk, dark, and white, naturally), then smothered in a frankly criminal amount of chocolate frosting and sprinkles. The first time he made them for a Losers’ Club party, Eddie had lost his shit, going on and on about how unhealthy they were, that they were all bound to fall into a diabetic coma just by looking at them. But he had ended up eating one, then two, then three, and now he was absolutely obsessed with them, always asking Richie to make some. Richie usually told him no, because yeah, they were honestly a diabetic coma waiting to happen and even Richie was worried about anyone eating them too often.

But hey, tonight’s a special occasion, and the whole point is to make Eddie happy.

“And, uh, I thought we could listen to this while we’re here,” Richie concludes, passing Eddie a cassette tape with “For Eds” and a dinky little heart written on it.

Eddie’s smile slowly slips off his face as he stares down at it. “You made me a mixtape?” He croaks.

Richie is thrown off by the amount of emotion in his voice and shrugs a little helplessly. “Yeah, I just threw together a few of your favorites.” _All_ his favorites, or at least it better be. Richie had spent hours on that tape, he was going to be so pissed if he forgot any.

The same indecipherable expression Eddie had made when Richie let it slip how long he’s been planning this appears on his face now. He runs a gentle finger over Richie’s sloppily drawn heart. “Cool,” he says, voice just a little above a whisper, smiling down at the tape.

“Oh, I also got you these,” Richie adds quickly, reaching behind himself and unwrapping a bouquet of daisies. “I’m not sure if you really like flowers, but I don’t know,” Richie shrugs again, a little sheepishly this time. “It seemed like an appropriate first date thing.”

Eddie falls back into wide-eyed silence, staring at the flowers in Richie’s outstretched hand for way longer than Richie is comfortable with. Then Eddie’s dropping his face into his hands and whispering a strangled “Oh my god,” into them.

“What?” Richie blurts, doing absolutely nothing to hide the panic in his voice. Whoops. “Do you not like them? You don’t have to keep them if you don’t like them, I’ll take them ba—”

“No, fuck off, I love them, I’m keeping them,” Eddie interrupts as he lifts his head back up, looking flustered with damp eyes. He snatches the flowers out of Richie’s hand, pauses for a second, like he’s realizing that that was a little violent, then much more gingerly sets them off to the side. Sniffling once, he leans over to pop his tape in the player, and points at the pan in front of Richie. “Gimme a brownie, I’m fucking drooling just looking at those things.”

And Richie doesn’t dwell on it, because Eddie is clearly ready to move forward, but he’s pretty sure those were good reactions?

They spend the next few hours eating and talking each other’s ears off—just like they always have and always will—starting with Eddie pointing out and explaining constellations to Richie and Richie making up new, ridiculous names for them, spurred on by Eddie’s cackling, until they both eventually sidetrack into random thoughts and stories. Richie peppers in his petname ideas all the while. 

(About halfway through the date, Richie ends up calling Eddie “my love,” then turns to him in confusion when he doesn’t immediately sigh or groan or bitch about it.

Eddie stays quiet for a few moments, and it’s hard to tell in the dark, but Richie’s pretty sure his ears are turning pink. Then Eddie huffs and mutters, “I kinda like that one.”

Richie beams at him, because if he’s being honest with himself, that was the only one he genuinely wanted to use again in the future. He leans closer to Eddie and softly croons some lyrics from “Eddie, My Love” in his ear.

“Shut _up_ ,” Eddie snaps and, yeah, his ears are definitely red now. 

“Rest assured that your decision is duly noted, but I still have several more petnames I don’t want going to waste.”

 _There’s_ Eddie’s groan.) 

They pause the conversations to kiss a little, under the stars like Richie’s been dreaming of for four years, and Richie doesn’t think he’s ever felt this happy. They have never kissed like this before; it was always fast and kind of desperate, either like they were making up for lost time, or like they were scared they were running out of time, about to be caught any moment. But out here, underneath bright, beautiful stars, curled up together in a quiet, peaceful bubble away from Derry, extricated from their regrets of the past or fears of the present, they have all the time in the world to enjoy every second, and their lips meet soft and slow and tender. 

The night ends with the two of them flat on their backs, looking up at the stars and listening to the mixtape a second time, their shoulders pressed together and hands intertwined between them. And it’s getting to be too late, Richie’s eyes starting to droop a little. He reminds himself with a sigh that he still has to drive them back to Derry and sneak Eddie into his room. But god, the temptation to just roll onto his side, wrap Eddie up in his arms, and fall asleep together in this little world of theirs is strong.

He’s about to admit defeat and suggest getting up when Eddie casually asks, “On a scale of 1 to 10, how smug are you going to act if I admit this is the perfect first date?”

And fine, Richie can acknowledge—privately—that his true reaction to that was a blush erupting in his cheeks and an awed, ecstatic chant of _He likes it, he likes it, he likes it!_ in his head.

But he has a _reputation_ to uphold, so he covers it with a cocky, “Oh, a solid 14, sugarpie.” Richie drops their hands to throw an arm over Eddie’s shoulder and pull him close. Eddie looks at him with a scowl that really, _really_ wants to crack into a smile. “I’m going to get a plaque made and force Ben to hang it up in the clubhouse. ‘Richie Tozier: Doting and Unbearably Handsome Boyfriend, Master First Date Planner, Owner of Derry’s Biggest Di—’”

“The sacrifices I make to be a grateful boyfriend,” Eddie dramatically sighs. “Where’s my goddamn plaque.” Richie’s retort gets caught in his throat as Eddie’s scowl finally lifts into a smile, albeit one _way_ softer and fonder than Richie was expecting. Eddie rolls onto his side and snuggles up against Richie, pressing a light kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, Richie,” he whispers.

_Anything for you, Eddie. Anything in the whole fucking world._

And it’s two fucking sentences, absolutely simple enough to say, especially with how much Richie’s heart is bursting with the truth of them. But his tongue feels like it’s made of lead and he just cannot get his mouth open again. So he wraps his arm tighter around Eddie and presses a lingering kiss in his hair, hoping it’s enough.

Eddie responds with a sweet, contented hum, so Richie thinks it is.

***

They had really tried to get into school together. They had really fucking tried.

Richie’s dream, ever since he was little, was to move to L.A., to launch his comedy career there, so that was the first place they applied. After Eddie started fretting about “putting all their eggs in one basket” (a phrase Richie relentlessly mocked him for casually using), they decided on a few other states throughout the country to find schools in, and they both applied to each of them. 

Because almost getting eaten by a demon clown at the age of thirteen apparently wasn’t enough for the universe in terms of fuckery against them, out of all the options they try and create for themselves, they are each given only one. Eddie gets accepted in New York, and Richie is given a full scholarship in L.A.

And Richie has already made up his mind on what he’s going to do. But as he watches Eddie pace, pausing every now and then to stress-tidy his already immaculate room, Richie doesn’t think it’s going to go over well.

“Honestly, fuck college,” Richie announces, nonchalantly lounging on Eddie’s bed. Eddie shoots him an exasperated look, and yeah, not going to go over well. But Richie is undeterred. “I’ll follow you to New York, learn some interpretative dance, and perform for nickels in the subway stations. I’ll be all set, pumpkin.”

“Um, yeah, no fucking way,” Eddie answers with finality.

“I know that’ll embarrass you in front of all the preppy nerds you will inevitably befriend, but you can lie to them. I’ll go to the subways in a suit so that when they see me commuting to and from your dorm, they’ll think I’m respectable.”

“Richie, it’ll take much more than a fucking suit to convince anyone you’re respectable.” Eddie pauses then wrinkles his nose. “And ‘inevitably,’ what the fuck does that mean? I’m not preppy.”

“Which fake career turns you on more, banker or insurance salesman?”

“I’ve fucking stomped around in sewers and lost my virginity in the backseat of a pickup truck, I’m not _preppy_.”

“I’m going with banker. Money is sexy, a career tied to money is inherently sexier.”

Eddie opens his mouth to say something else, then visibly deflates with a sigh. “I feel like maybe we’re both fixating on random shit to distract ourselves from the fact that we’re going to be spending the next four years apart.”

Jesus Christ, leave it to Eddie fucking Kaspbrak to lay it all out on the table without mercy. Richie resolutely ignores the wave of nausea that shoots through his stomach at the phrase “four years apart” and continues, “Wait, can I even perform interpretative dance in a suit? How restrictive are banker suits?”

“ _Richie_.”

Richie sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He knows he has to sack up and have this conversation like an adult—a realization that sets off the familiar twist in his stomach and tightening in his throat. Awesome.

“Look, I’m serious, Eds,” Richie says. “Not about all of that, obviously, but I don’t need to go to college. I’m going wherever you go.”

Eddie huffs, the way he does whenever Richie is being purposefully difficult. As if he thinks that’s what’s happening here. “ _No_ , you need to go to L.A. That’s the best place to get a start in comedy, that’s what you said.”

“Yeah, but—”

“That’s what you’ve been saying for years, Rich.”

Richie shrugs, starting to feel like he’s getting backed into a corner he doesn’t know how to get out of. “Whatever, it’s not like it will be fucking impossible to get started in New York instead.”

“But that’s not what you _want_ , Richie,” Eddie snaps, waving his hands emphatically. “You _want_ to go to L.A., that’s what you’ve always—” 

_He doesn’t get it,_ a sharp voice in his head urges. _He doesn’t understand, he doesn’t know you’d do anything for him, you never told him, you have to make him understand_. Panic starts welling up in his chest, rapidly filling his lungs. But he fights to shove it down. _Just focus, Richie_ , says the Eddie-sounding voice in his head. _Focus, focus, focus._

The real Eddie is always telling him that. That Richie overwhelms himself with so many thoughts swirling in his head at once, and he needs to try and land on just one. Pick one thought and pour all his focus into saying it, not letting up until he’s done it. It’s worked before.

_It’s worked before. It’s for Eddie. Do it for Eddie. Focus, focus, focus._

“Eddie, I don’t want it anymore if it means I have to lose you,” he blurts. 

And for a split second he’s proud of himself, because that was the perfect thing to say. But then Eddie recoils like Richie just slapped him in the face.

He stares wide-eyed at Richie, mouth gaping a little, then says quietly, simply, “You can’t do that.”

A bolt of irritation shoots through Richie at that and he snaps, “ _Yes_ , I _can_ —”

“No, Richie, you can’t, I can’t,” Eddie begs, suddenly sounding choked up and desperate, wide eyes filled with pain and head shaking frantically. It all halts Richie in his tracks. “I can’t do that to you, I can’t be the thing that stops you from doing what you’ve always wanted, I really, really can’t.”

And Richie is helpless to do anything but wilt and turn his eyes to the floor. Because he knows. He knows he’s being impractical, throwing away an opportunity like this. Knows how anxious Eddie is about venturing into the real world, knows he needs to have a solid, conventional plan under his belt to face it, and that includes going to college. Knows how enamored Eddie is with independence, with _freedom_ , the idea of finally being and doing whatever they want in life, and the guilt would absolutely eat away at him if he went every day believing he took that away from Richie. He knows all this.

But god, he thinks about months, _years_ away from Eddie and it feels like his chest is being sliced open. He looks at Eddie and the desire to _keep_ is so strong he just wants to throw everything else out the window and hold him tight. 

They sit in silence for a few moments too long, Eddie’s eyes still fixed on Richie, before he says, “But you don’t have to lose me.”

 _Yes I do, I was never supposed to have this, if they separate us they’ll never let us keep each other,_ Richie thinks wildly, nonsensically, and feels his eyes well up with tears. He slams them shut and chokes out, “Eddie—”

“No, Richie, I’m fucking serious,” he argues, rushing forward to kneel in front of Richie and clasp his hands between his. “You’re not going to lose me. We’re gonna make this work, okay? And it’s gonna be hard, I know, it’s gonna fucking suck, but we’re gonna do it, we’ll talk every single day, and send each other love letters like we’re the protagonists of some idiotic romance novel, and we’ll visit each other over winter and summer breaks. Then the moment I graduate, I’m on a one-way ticket to L.A., and shacking up in some tiny, disgusting apartment we can barely afford, and you’ll be performing at all sorts of shitty comedy clubs and I’ll be there to heckle you at each and every one, and it’ll be perfect.” His voice softens as he says, “Baby, look at me.”

Richie does. He opens his eyes to see Eddie in front of him, bright-eyed and earnest and so obstinately determined, ready to fight the whole world for what he wants.

“We’re going to be perfect, Richie. I promise.”

And Richie listens. 

<><><>

He wishes now he fucking hadn’t.

Steps slowing and then coming to a dead halt, Richie looks up to find himself in front of the Capitol Theater, now abandoned. He stares up at the decaying marquee and heaves a sigh.

Today’s memories have already left him feeling both hollow and twisted up inside, like his heart was scooped out of his body, wrung out like a wet washcloth, then shoved back in. Call him crazy, but he doesn’t think whatever this fucking place has to offer is really going to help him out.

Easing the door open through a hole in the glass, Richie slowly wanders in, looking around cautiously, then flinching backward as the memory hits him full force, like a bullet to the chest. 

<><><>

“Fuck fuck fuck, god fucking damn it, you motherfucking shit, god, fuck,” Eddie curses under his breath, slamming the Street Fighter controls like he’s struggling, even though he’s winning. 

(Even though Richie is letting him win, because god, it’s been two weeks since the two of them have hung out and Eddie was always so _cute_ when he won, and Richie is ravenous for that reaction.)

Richie’s been restraining himself from glancing over at Eddie the whole game, but now reasons that Eddie will be too distracted to notice in this final stretch and risks it. And god, he’s fucking adorable, eyebrows scrunched low in concentration and lips moving as quickly as his hands as he keeps on muttering.

It’s even more adorable when Richie’s fighter falls and his face lights up like a Christmas tree. “Yes!” He whoops, jumping up and down in excitement and wiggling around in some stupid little victory dance.

 _GOD. Cute, cute, cute._ Richie bites down hard on his lip to contain the besotted smile bound to come out if left unchecked.

Eddie whirls to face Richie and gestures to his cast dramatically. “I told you I could still kick your ass with this, you piece of shit!” He crows. 

Richie goes to retort, but it dies in his throat as his eyes fixate on Eddie’s blank cast. The sight of it sends a jolt of pain through his chest. He spends a lot of time these days wishing for the Losers to be back together and for an utterly miserable shitstorm of a life to fall upon Sonia Kaspbrak—and he wishes both things for several reasons, but right now just because he wants Eddie to have some signatures on this goddamn cast. 

He does his best to shake it off and reaches for another token, extending it towards Eddie. “Yeah, yeah, whatever, Eds. Rematch?”

Eddie checks his watch and sighs. “No, I have to be heading home, my mom will be back soon. But I’ll call you next time I can—”

“Are you sure I can’t sign your cast?” Richie blurts out, and okay, guess he didn’t do as good a job shaking it off as he thought.

“No, dipshit, then my mom will know I snuck out,” Eddie says, trying to sound annoyed at having to repeat himself. (But Richie sees his cheeks turning pink, so he knows better.) 

“Alright, then I won’t sign my name, I’ll just draw something she thinks you would draw on your own.” _Like the chorus to your favorite song, or some stupid Thundercats doodle, or the stars, please let me draw the stars, Eds, I’ll fill this whole fucking cast with constellations and meteors and—_ “Like a pill, a nice hearty supplement pill, or your inhaler! Come on, lemme draw a cute little inhaler—”

“How about you write ‘Richie Tozier is an asswipe,’ that’ll convince her,” Eddie replies drily, holding a scowl for a few more moments before it breaks into an appreciative smile that makes Richie’s heart skip. “It’s fine, Rich, really. But thank you.” He heads towards the exit, patting Richie’s arm on the way past, still smiling at him. “I’ll see you later, okay?” 

Richie tries to respond with something, you know, normal ( _Sure, Eds, I’ll be sure to stop by your room on the way to your mom’s later tonight_ ) but all that comes out is a croaked “’Kay,” and some dumbass little wave. Eddie waves back and Richie accidentally lets the besotted smile slip through as Eddie leaves the theater and starts walking down the street, and he watches for longer than he knows he should. 

“See, I told you Richie fucking Tozier wasn’t the only one,” Henry Bowers says behind him and Richie’s blood runs cold. 

He turns back to see Bowers, Vic, and Belch looking at him in disgust. Richie stares back in terror, the wind knocked out of him like he was just punched in the gut. 

“He’s got his little fairy boyfriend too,” Bowers sneers and Richie’s stomach drops out of his body. _No, not Eddie, don’t hurt Eddie, leave Eddie alone, please, please, please._ “Right, Tozier?” Bowers taunts, stepping closer. “On a date with your fucking boyfriend?” 

Richie’s lungs clench, then all at once he can’t breathe and everything’s moving too fast, his heart, his head, the arcade, everything’s spinning and whirling and screaming and everyone’s staring and everyone knows and he can’t breathe, and he can’t speak, he can’t speak, why can he never _speak_. _Say something, they’re all going to go after Eddie if you don’t, you can’t do that to him, you messed up, you have to fix it, say something, say something, say something, do something._

“Get the fuck outta here, faggot!” Bowers screams and Richie’s turning tail and bursting out the Capitol doors and running, running, running to—

<><><>

The Paul Bunyan statue. And there’s no snarling teeth or swinging axe or bats flying out of its mouth this time, but just the sight of it, stationary and perfectly harmless, has goosebumps raising on Richie’s arms. He stays standing in front of it but has to look down at his feet, toying with the token in his pocket. 

All in all, everything had turned out okay for Eddie. Henry had been arrested and his goons had gone “missing” before any of them ever even saw Eddie again, and the rest of the kids at the arcade that day either hadn’t remembered the instance or weren’t big enough assholes to harass him or Richie.

Probably the first option.

It had all turned out okay, everything was _fine_ , but the memory of it still has Richie’s chest caving in on itself a little. Because he could have maybe done something to spare Eddie, he could have at least _tried_ , but he didn’t, he froze up, he always—

“Poor little Trashmouth never could use his words for good,” drawls from above him a voice he hasn’t heard in 27 years. His entire body seizes in horror. 

_Oh **fuck** this_, he thinks vehemently as his head whips back up to the Paul Bunyan statue to find Pennywise the fucking Clown perched on its shoulder holding a bouquet of red balloons.

Pennywise looks down at Richie with a melodramatic frown and glowing yellow eyes and jeers, “Couldn’t defend Eddie, couldn’t protect Eddie, couldn’t _looove_ Eddie.”

 _Run, run, run, run, you have to run, Richie, run,_ his brain chants feverishly, but he’s completely frozen in place, gaping up dumbly and forgetting how to breathe all over again.

“Should I tell him you still love him, Richie?” Pennywise calls, frown distorting into a sinister, gleeful smile, drool dripping off Its lips. “I know _you_ won’t.”

The balloons lift It up and off the statue, then slowly float down towards Richie, Pennywise kicking Its legs and maniacally cackling all the while. Heart pounding so hard he can practically feel it hitting his chest, Richie stumbles back a couple feet. _RUN, RUN, RUN, RICHIE, YOU HAVE TO RUN NOW._

As soon as Its feet hit the ground, Richie slams his eyes shut and whispers, “This isn’t happening, this isn’t real. This isn’t real, it isn’t happening, it isn’t real.” He takes a deep breath then blinks his eyes back open. 

Pennywise lets loose a high-pitched, shrieking giggle and lurches toward Richie, hands outstretched, and that finally kicks Richie’s body into listening to his screaming head. He stumbles farther back with a yell, then he’s running, running, running, as Pennywise cries after him, “Poor little trashmouth, poor little trashmouth!”

***

Richie wanders around for a long while after that, shaking off the residual panic that comes with, you know, being mere feet away from getting eaten by a demon clown. And because his brain hates him, he’s also stewing in guilt and shame over how, despite _everything_ , he’s still exactly the way he was 27 years ago. Afraid to speak, afraid to be seen. Afraid of Eddie knowing Richie loved him. 

After far too long alone with his own rampant self-deprecation—long enough that it’s starting to get dark—he huffs at himself and heads back to the townhouse, reasoning that, look, a fucking demon clown just told him all this, he doesn’t deserve to have more piled on by himself, of all people.

_Don’t you though?_

“Oh my god, shut the fuck up,” Richie groans at himself, wrenching open the townhouse doors.

He passes through an empty lobby and heads upstairs, distantly wondering if the others have made it back yet. As he passes by Eddie’s room, he notices the door slightly open and pauses to listen. He can hear Eddie stomping around and muttering under his breath inside. Amused, Richie pushes open the door and enters with a smirk that immediately falls off his face when he takes in the sight before him.

Eddie, hair damp and a little curly like he just got out of the shower, marches around his room, distractedly throwing things in the open suitcase on his bed. _Packing_ , his brain supplies anxiously. _Eddie’s packing. Eddie’s leaving._ In the middle of the bed sits Eddie’s phone, vibrating over and over with texts from Myra. Richie can’t quite make out what they say from this distance, but he could probably give a pretty good guess based on the glower on Eddie’s face. 

“What are you doing?” Richie croaks.

“I’m leaving,” Eddie answers, and Richie jolts a little not at the answer but at the tone of his voice: low and calm but dripping with vitriol. An Eddie that exploded, snapping, yelling, cursing people out, was so run of the mill it fazed no one. An Eddie reacting like _this_ was dire. “That’s what I fucking do, Richie, I leave,” he continues. “Because I’m fucking useless. I can’t help anyone or take care of anyone. My wife knows it, the fucking clown knew it, everyone knows it. So what’s the goddamn point?”

Richie thinks then that this might really be the angriest he has ever seen Eddie. Just absolutely furious that people keep feeding him this bullshit about himself, but even angrier that he keeps listening. Richie _knows_ Eddie and knows that’s what really gets to him—that even if he doesn’t believe them himself, he falls back on these expectations anyway, because he doesn’t trust himself to do the alternative. Because the alternative is new and different and terrifying.

Really, who could blame him for that?

And that clawed hand that lives in Richie’s chest, preventing him from living his truth, trying to keep him safe but only hurting him in the process—it’s a huge bitch, no doubt about it, and Richie’s fighting with it constantly. But he’ll give it this. There were times when it let up completely, gave him no fight whatsoever, left him, for once, completely and utterly free. 

And it’s always whenever Eddie gets like this. When he insults himself or doesn’t believe in himself, trying to convince whoever will listen that he’s selfish or cowardly or worthless. Because Richie just cannot let that stand unchallenged. The sheer, unabashed desire to prove Eddie _wrong_ is the only thing he has to easily combat the fear of vulnerability, the only thing that completely overrides his urge to stay hidden. He did it when Eddie called himself a coward during his confession, he remembers doing it when Eddie hated himself for leaving his mother for college. And Richie does it now. He hears himself say, “Okay, so leave.”

And he says it kindly, patiently, but Eddie still whips to face him with an expression like Richie just told him he recently axed someone through and now Eddie’s next. “What?” He snaps, not able to fully cover the hurt in his voice.

“Go ahead and leave,” Richie repeats, as gently as he can. “Because I know you won’t get a mile out of this town before you’re turning back around and finding us.” Without really consciously making the decision to do so, he starts inching closer to Eddie. “You were the gutsy little fucker who stormed out of Sonia Kaspbrak’s fucking tower with a broken arm to fight the demon clown who gave it to you the _second_ you heard that your friends needed your help. When it’s down to the wire, Eddie, you don’t listen to what your wife and your mother and that piece of shit clown try to tell you.” He stops in front of Eddie and places a hand on his shoulder. “You listen to your heart. And your heart is strong and loyal and fucking brave. So you can do whatever you need to do right now, Eds. But I know where you’ll be come the final hour.”

Eddie stares at him all the while, mouth slightly agape, for once completely speechless. As Richie settles in front of him, he clamps his mouth shut and his wide eyes dart down to look at the hand on his shoulder. When they meet Richie’s again, they’re glistening with shock and gratitude and… something familiar.

Something Richie’s been dying to see in those eyes again.

All at once way too overwhelmed to handle this, Richie jerks his hand up and awkwardly pats Eddie on the side of the head. He apparently does it harsher than he realizes because Eddie winces and hisses out an “Ow!”

“Sorry,” Richie says, then turns and leaves the room.

***

Bev finds him sitting on the bottom of the stairs in the lobby, curled up in a ball and staring blankly in front of him.

“How are you doing?” She asks, tone deceptively conversational to the untrained ear, but Richie can hear that perceptive undercurrent. Like she fucking knows he was just with an Eddie who maybe sorta kinda looked like he might kiss him and is having a quiet meltdown about it.

But hey, Richie’s got a lot of stuff going on right now, it doesn’t _all_ have to be about Eddie. He can deflect with the best of ‘em. “Well, today a demonic alien clown roasted me for being an emotionally constipated chickenshit, so I’ve certainly been better.”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Bev sighs, sitting down next to him. 

Richie sighs right back, though far noisier and more dramatic. Apparently he cannot deflect with the best of ‘em, at least not with Beverly involved. “I’m doing fine, Bev. It’s been 20 years, why wouldn’t I?”

“The same reason Bill and I kissed earlier,” she retorts drily. 

Richie turns to face her so quickly his neck pops in three different places. “You fucking _what_?”

“And that situation is just barely comparable to you two, and _I’m_ not doing fine, so don’t start with me.”

“No, no, don’t gloss over that, you _what_?”

Bev sighs again, softer this time, and clasps her hands in front of her. “I don’t know, it just kind of happened. And it wasn’t…” She pauses, like she’s choosing her words carefully. “It wasn’t what I was expecting. It didn’t _feel_ the way I was expecting.” Her voice takes on a quiet, wistful tone, the same way it did when she talked about Bill as a junior. “I think I’ll always feel something for him, but maybe it’s just… more nostalgic than anything _real_ , you know? I just… I’m looking for something here and I don’t think it’s Bill.” She pauses again, furrowing her eyebrows, like she’s on the cusp of a realization. “I don’t think it was ever really Bill.” 

And however much Richie wants to scream from the rooftops, _it isn’t, it wasn’t, it’s Ben, it was always Ben_ , he knows as well as he did back then that he can’t. He can’t speak for Ben, he can’t tell Beverly how she feels. But he has to offer her something, so he gently agrees, “I don’t think it was either.”

She nods a little, then looks down at her clasped hands, running her thumb over her finger where her wedding ring used to sit. Then she’s turning back to Richie with an eyebrow raised. “So?” She prompts, gentle but insistent. 

He must be more emotionally exhausted than he thought, because instead of protesting and changing the topic entirely, Richie says, “Did I ever tell you about how Eddie and I said, ‘I love you’ for the first time?”

“I don’t think so,” she says encouragingly, rather than calling him out for avoiding the topic again.

“Let me forewarn you, Miss Marsh, it’s really stupid.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

<><><>

It happened, much to Eddie’s future chagrin, in Richie’s pickup truck, parked out in an otherwise completely abandoned parking lot on a late Tuesday night. The two of them were spending the evening in the backseat, their backs against the doors and legs tangled together in the middle of the seat, talking about absolutely nothing at all and passing junk food back and forth.

Richie’s being gross with the gummy worms, per the norm, popping one end between his teeth and seeing how far he can stretch the rest of it before it snaps, obnoxiously humming “Rock Lobster” while he does. Eddie’s been quiet for a couple minutes, just watching Richie with a vaguely thoughtful expression. (Which was very out of the ordinary, and honestly should have tipped Richie off sooner, but, as always, he was just so goddamn thrilled that Eddie was choosing to look at _him_ that he didn’t think too hard about it. Gift horses’ mouths and all that.) 

Pausing with the gummy worm he’s currently stretching, Richie gestures to the ground next to Eddie and mumbles out of the corner of his mouth, “Hey, babe, could you pass the Fritos?”

“I love you,” is the answer he gets.

Richie freezes. … Like, completely. His brain, his heart, his limbs, everything goes completely still. Except for his eyes, which dart up to meet Eddie’s. He’s still looking at Richie thoughtfully, utterly unfazed by the three words that just left his mouth and subsequently turned his boyfriend into a statue.

Gummy worm hanging loose from his mouth and probably looking like a fucking owl if his eyes look as wide as they feel, Richie asks dumbly, “Huh?”

Eddie’s face melts into a fond smile, looking at Richie like he hung the stars he’s so crazy about. _Richie_ , who decidedly did not hang any stars so far as he’s aware, and didn’t comb his hair today and is wearing a reused, stained t-shirt and has, just to reiterate, a fucking gummy worm hanging from his mouth.

“I love your dorky glasses and your dumb jokes and that awful fucking smile you get when you piss me off. I love how you’re too shy and modest to admit how sweet and thoughtful you are underneath all the jackassery.” Eddie cracks a wicked grin. “I also love how I tried to gush about that to Bev and the second I used the word ‘shy’ to describe you, she looked at me like I just told her your dick was purple or something.” He giggles to himself and trails off, looking to the side for a few moments, fond smile creeping back onto his face.

Face burning and heart hammering, Richie takes the few moments of quiet without Eddie’s gaze fixed on him to shove the fucking gummy worm into his mouth and somehow swallow it down without choking. He tries to say something, probably something else about his dick if the familiar feeling wrapping around his vocal chords is to be trusted, but then Eddie’s speaking again, his voice downright affectionate, and oh _fuck_.

“I love how you’ve never once treated me like I’m fragile, even though you care about me. Or like I’m somehow different now because I’m your boyfriend. We still roughhouse and curse each other out and bicker, and I _love_ that, Rich.” He looks back at Richie, eyes soft and serious. “I love how I feel when I’m with you. Safe and happy and… free.” He shrugs, light and easy. “I just love you, Richie.”

And in the few months they’ve been dating, Richie likes to think he’s managed to keep himself more or less pretty grounded and composed. But here he is, in the cramped back seat of his pickup, that familiar hornet’s nest feeling back with a vengeance, deafening static buzzing through his head, completely paralyzed by how much he’s feeling right now, by all the things he’s thinking—

_I love you too. You’re so cute and passionate and the funniest person I’ve ever met and the bravest person I will ever meet, and I’m head over heels crazy about you. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. I’m going to love you for the rest of my life and beyond, and I want that, I want that so much, I never want anyone but you._

—And just like always, sheer panic forces its way through the chaos and the claws tighten their grip around his throat, blocking everything but a strangled, “Awesome.” 

Eddie’s face typically scrunches up into pure, righteous rage at Richie’s assorted bullshit, but now it falls into an expression so deadpan and unimpressed, Richie’s honestly convinced Stan has somehow managed to possess him. “What the everloving fuck do you mean ‘awesome’?” Eddie’s tone is just as dry as Stan’s too, god, Richie’s fucked this up.

“If it helps, that is absolutely not what I wanted to say.”

“It doesn’t.”

Mortification swirling in his gut, Richie feels himself getting defensive, _as if his dumb ass actually has anything to defend_ , and snaps, “Okay, well, you have to give me a minute to process this.”

Oh, thank God, there goes the face scrunching. “This isn’t exactly fucking breaking news, Richie, I’m not what you’d call a subtle person!” And his voice is starting to pitch into that high, outraged shriek too. Alright, Richie can roll with this so much better.

“Yeah, but you’ve never just… _said_ it like that!”

“So?!”

“So, can I please have a minute?!”

“Fine, whatever!” Eddie shouts, throwing his arms up before crossing them tightly against his chest and scowling out the back window.

Richie takes a deep breath and tries—just really desperately _tries_ —to silence this mess in his head, or at least locate where to turn down the fucking volume, because he still can’t breathe over the cacophony of _you’re so perfect, Eddie, I want to spend every day of the rest of my life looking at you and talking to you and thinking of you_ and _he loves me back, we’re in love, we’re officially in love_ and _Jesus fucking Christ, Tozier, what the everloving fuck do you mean “awesome,” what the fuck is wrong with you, you have to say it back, you worthless fucking bastard_ and then he’s searching the truck for a spare bottle of water or something because his mouth feels like he’s been in the desert for weeks and—

And he’s interrupted by a belligerent huff and a snappy “Richie, I swear to—”

Richie groans at the ceiling and shouts, “Oh my god, you bitch, yes, obviously I love you too!”

“Great!” Eddie throws his arms up again. “Fucking thank you!”

There’s about ten seconds of silence as they glare at each other, and then Eddie bursts out laughing. Richie grins at him, embarrassment and anxiety and irritation all submitting to pure affection as he leans forward to press quick kisses to Eddie’s face.

“God, we suck,” Eddie giggles, playfully swatting Richie away.

“Stanley is finally ditching us when he hears about this,” Riche giggles his own self, leaning back against the car door and resting a hand on Eddie’s calf. “That’s it, he’s done, it’s the Lucky Six from now on, he’s never speaking to us again.”

“We are _not_ telling anyone this is how it happened.”

“Honeybunch, you are out of your goddamn mind if you think they’re going to believe any other story. This is quintessential Richie and Eddie goodness right here.”

Eddie snorts and concedes with a nod, gently nudging Richie with his foot.

Richie strokes his calf with his thumb for a moment, then points at the ground and says, “No, but seriously, pass me the Fritos,” cackling when Eddie chucks them at his face and much-less-gently nudges Richie with his foot again. 

It wasn’t until they had climbed back into the front seats and Richie was sticking his key into the ignition to drive them home that his brain pressed rewind on the past half hour. And suddenly a cocktail of dread, regret, and horror is dunked on his head like a bucket of ice water.

“Oh my fucking god, you rattled off a goddamn sonnet about your love for me and all I did was call you a bitch, what the fu—”

Eddie laughs harder than Richie thinks he’s ever heard him laugh before. Not cruelly, or mockingly, but genuinely amused and, dare Richie say, delighted. _What the fuck_ , Richie’s brain whispers while he stares at Eddie helplessly.

“Yeah, yep,” Eddie replies once he’s calmed down enough to speak, “That’s sure what happened.”

Richie squeezes his eyes shut and rubs his aching forehead, vaguely aware of his hands beginning to tremble. _You’re such a fuckup, Tozier, get everything you want and ruin it all with your fucking mouth, you piece of—_ “Shit, I am so fucking sorry, Eddie, I—”

“Hey, no,” Eddie’s still wheezing some residual laughter, but he seems to be processing how distressed Richie is right now and is trying to force it down. “It’s fine, Rich, it’s great. It was quintessential us, remember?” And even Eddie’s sly little grin and sparkle in his eye isn’t enough to quell the wave of guilt at the reminder of how carelessly Richie had shrugged off his own terrible confession.

“I meant the bickering, I don’t want ‘quintessential us’ to mean me being a shitty boyfriend!”

Eddie’s smile drops and his tone turns reprimanding. “Richie—”

“You know I’m the same way, right, like with the lovesick sonnet thing?” Richie’s head snaps up to face Eddie, suddenly desperate that he understands this. “Like, you know that’s how I feel too, right? Fuck, if you had a mind reader or something, you’d find, like, a whole fucking Shakespearean soliloquy about how into you I am, I just… I can’t…” He exhales something shaky and swears he can feel his voice physically shrinking, croaking out a small, “I’m so sorry, I don’t know how to…” And god, it should be easy now, easier than ever, because Eddie went _first_ , Richie _knows_ he won’t be rejected, there is literally nothing keeping him from pouring his heart out, but he just can’t get his fucking trashmouth to cooperate, and—

“Richie, sweetheart,” Eddie murmurs, grabbing his hand. Distantly, Richie realizes this is the first time Eddie’s used a petname for him and, okay, he is officially getting zero sleep, he’s going to be up the rest of the night just trying to process this entire date. “I know it’s hard for you to say what you’re really thinking. I shouldn’t have rushed you and I’m sorry for that.” Eddie reaches forward with his other hand to tilt Richie’s chin to meet his gaze, and Richie feels the frenzy in his head and chest already start to calm just looking at the sincere conviction bubbling in those big brown eyes. “But I don’t mind if an ‘I love you too’ is all you can get out, okay?” Eddie smiles again, sweet and teasing, and Richie exhales, steadier this time. “I literally just this evening told you how great of a boyfriend you are, please learn to pay attention. You were right, _obviously_ you love me too, I’d have to be a fucking idiot to miss that. You don’t need to spew any romantic shit for me to know."

“I’d still like to,” Richie grumbles, partially to be contrary, but mostly because it’s true, he _would_ like to. Even if he believes every word Eddie’s just said to him, and the roar of guilt and panic has subsided into a dull mewl, he _wants_ Eddie to know how much Richie loves him. He wants it more than anything.

“Okay, so, romance me! Don’t overanalyze it, just hit me with the first thing you think of, really focus on it. I promise I’ll be patient this time.” Eddie drops Richie’s hand to prop his elbow on his seat and rest his head on his arm, dramatically fluttering his eyelashes and smirking. “I’ll give you a list of my best qualities if you need some prompting.”

And _that_ fucking move has Richie’s head buzzing again and he clams up _again_ , mouth opening and closing like a fucking fish and god fucking dammit, Eddie’s right, Eddie’s always right, he just needs to land on something and _say_ it, just _say it_.

“I’m never going to love anyone as much as I love you, I’m calling it right now.”

Oh, so he just went _straight_ for his most dramatic and embarrassing Eddie thought. Cool.

Eddie stares wide-eyed at him, clearly expecting something like that as much as Richie did. And Richie almost expects him to refute it in some way, a gentle but stern “Don’t make promises you don’t know you can keep,” or “We’re so young, Richie, how can you possibly know that?”

But instead he just asks, voice barely above a whisper, “Do you really mean that?”

And Richie discovers that night that follow-up affirmations are much less challenging than the declarations now, because he’s immediately answering, “Of course I do.”

Just those four simple words and Eddie’s face breaks into the widest, brightest, most beautiful grin Richie has ever seen from him, and god, Richie’s wanted to make him smile like that for years and all this time he just had to _be honest_?

Fucking wild.

At least he has a real persuasive incentive for working on this character flaw.

“Well, good,” Eddie replies, smug and delighted, and Richie’s heart honest to god flutters. “Cause neither will I.”

“Good,” Richie agrees, a little breathless with how quickly that fluttery feeling rushes through his body, like it’s been injected into his veins, and leaves him downright giddy. “Glad we’re on the same fucking page for once.”

Eddie snorts and opens his mouth to retort, before appearing to think better of it, instead punching Richie’s shoulder and dragging him in for a kiss. 

<><><>

“And then we made out for, like, an hour, and he lectured me the whole drive home for keeping him out so late on a school night, even though he was the one who started… _all_ of that, actually, and—” Richie cuts himself off as he feels Bev softly brush away a tear on his cheek. He hadn’t even realized he’d started crying.

He also didn’t realize that Ben had wandered in at some point in the story and is standing at Richie’s side now, looking down at him with soft, sad eyes. And seeing Ben, the only one who ever really understood the aching want of Richie’s heart, the only one who understands it now—feels it for the love of his own life just as fervently right this moment as he glances to her—Richie finally lets himself break down and sob.

“Oh, honey,” Bev whispers, throwing her arm around him and hugging him tight. At the same time, Ben sits down on Richie’s other side, running a comforting hand down his arm. The two of them don’t say anything else, just sit and hold Richie, letting him cry and cry. And even after his breathing has evened back out and he’s wiped his face dry, they don’t pull away. Like they’re afraid to let him go.

But Richie’s afraid for them to let him go too.

Eventually, Richie hears someone coming down the stairs behind them and squeezes his eyes shut again. Fuck, he doesn’t want to see Eddie leave. He meant every word he said, he has nothing but full confidence that he’ll come back. But that won’t make it any easier to watch him walk away, not when Richie’s in this state.

He hears Eddie say, “Hey, Ben, would you mind scooting over, buddy?” behind him and sags in defeat. But instead of Ben scooting closer to Richie to give Eddie space to get down the stairs, Richie feels Ben move from his side entirely, leaving Eddie the room to take Ben’s place. He sits down, tucks up against Richie, and rests his head on his shoulder.

Richie opens his eyes to see Eddie without his suitcases or the furious frustration from upstairs. Just Eddie calmly staring straight ahead and curled up against Richie like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like it’s _still_ the most natural thing in the world.

Just like back then, Richie’s face erupts into a blush. “Uh—"

“Shut up, Richie,” Eddie mumbles, but it’s gentle. The type of “Shut up, Richie” that had always meant _You don’t need to overthink right now. It’s okay. I’ve got you._

Warmth unspools in Richie’s chest and he can’t stop the smile tugging at his lips. He can feel himself starting to spiral into a frantic, vaguely hopeful _what does this mean, why did he listen to you, what does he want, does he want you again_ and shuts it down as quickly as he can. He tells himself to listen to Eddie and just shut up. Savor this moment, this open permission to touch Eddie, this old piece of normalcy that he may never get again. Still smiling to himself, he rests his head against Eddie’s and gently holds Eddie’s wrist.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ben and Beverly exchange a fond, amused glance. Ben scoots a little closer to Eddie and rubs his arm, just like he had with Richie, and Bev gives Richie a little squeeze with the arm she has still wrapped around him. 

Eventually—far too soon for Richie’s liking—there’s a sudden thundering on the stairs behind them, and the four of them flinch apart, reasonably assuming the worst after the afternoon they’ve had. But it’s only a worried Mike and a rare-and-thus-incredibly-terrifying enraged Stanley Uris.

“Guys, get up, Bill needs us,” Mike urges. 

“What’s going on?” Bev asks, immediately launching up and extending a hand down to help Richie stand.

“Asshole’s going to take on the fucking clown by himself,” Stan fumes.

“Oh my god,” Eddie grumbles, burying his face back in Richie’s shoulder.

“Where is he?” Ben asks.

Mike looks at each of them, expression equal parts somber and apologetic. “I think you know.”

“Oh my _goddd_ ,” Eddie groans. 

***

“Bill, what the absolute _fuck_ , man?” Stan yells as the six of them manage to catch Bill on the steps of the Neibolt house.

“No, _no_ , you guys, no!” Bill yells back as they all crowd in front of him, shaking his head frantically and looking tortured. “I h-have to do th-this alone. I st-started all this. It’s my fault that y-you’re all here. I dr-dragged you all into this, this _n-nightmare_ , that first day I m-made you go down to the Barrens, because all I cared about was finding G-G-Georgie.” He exhales, low and shaky, then tilts his chin up. “Now I h-have to end this m-myself. I’m going to g-go in there and I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I c-can’t ask you to do this—”

“Hey, with all due respect, Big Bill, fuck, like, _all_ of that,” Richie interrupts.

Bev shoots Richie a grin, then bends down to pick up one of the old fence posts laying at her feet. She turns back to Bill with a resolute, “Yeah, we’ve heard this speech before.”

“We didn’t leave then, Bill. And we’re not leaving now,” Mike says, voice somehow both gentle and the strictest Richie’s ever heard it.

“Losers stick together,” Ben says with a warm, reassuring smile.

“No matter what,” Eddie adds, his strong, loyal, fucking brave heart bleeding into the _don’t fuck with me_ glower he levels at Bill.

Stan’s righteous fury has fallen off his face, replaced with a terror Richie hasn’t seen on his face in 27 years. He’s gone pale and is staring up at the Neibolt house with wide eyes and unsteady breaths. And before Richie can even think of the right thing to do, Eddie grabs Stan’s arm and murmurs, “No matter what, Stan. We’re all here with you.”

And Richie’s heart swells looking at the two of them. The two who came closest to being Pennywise’s victims the first time. If Richie were either one of them, there’s no way he would step foot anywhere near this godforsaken house ever again; anywhere near this _town_ again. But here they were. Despite their fear, despite how much they believed they didn’t have what it takes to do it all over again, here they were.

 _I’m getting you two out of here_ , and it’s a promise. Looking around at the six of them, Richie promises vehemently, _We’re all getting out of here._

Stan leans into Eddie a little bit, takes a deep breath and nods. He meets Bill’s gaze with an unwavering, “We swore, Bill.”

Bill smiles at him, soft and overwhelmed. Then he looks around at each of them individually, and Richie can see now that his eyes are wet too. And oh god, Richie can navigate a self-deprecating fearless leader speech, but he 100% cannot handle a loving, grateful fearless leader speech without embarrassing himself.

Bill, bless his heart, seems to recognize this sentiment on Richie’s face and gives him a nod and grin. “Richie, will you do the h-honors?”

Richie grins back and loudly claps his hands together. “Alright, Losers,” and his voice is a little shaky from the fresh, unadulterated fear settling in his stomach, but he’s going to push through it. Just like Stan and Eddie. Just like all his best friends. “Let’s kill this fucking clown.”

***

And, somehow, they did.

They fucking did it.

Without anyone even needing to audibly confirm the decision, they all head to the quarry afterwards, diving in with whoops and cheers. They’re dirty and bloody but loud and wild with lingering adrenaline and the sweet, sharp gut punch of victory.

They swam around for a while, longer than any sane adults really would. Eddie of course ranted and raved about the infections they were bound to get—“Especially if any of us have any open wounds right now, I know some of you fuckers at least have scratches, and what, you think cleaning up in dirty lake water is going to _help_?”—until Beverly splashed him in the face. He sputtered and, pure affront glittering in his eyes, splashed her back twice as hard, and an all-out water fight erupted, just like they were all thirteen again.

Now they’re sitting silent on the shore, huddled together. Each one of them is taking care to assure they’re all touching in some way: shoulders slumped against each other, hands resting on knees or grasping someone else’s, heads bowed together. The adrenaline has faded and now they’re all just trying to process everything that happened.

Right away they had been separated. Because of course they had.

Bev, Ben, and Mike were trapped in one room, dealing with something wildly unpleasant, no doubt. Richie couldn’t really tell what it was, too distracted with, you know, a freaky spider nightmare attacking his face. Bill and Eddie fruitlessly tried to wrestle it off him, until Stan, previously frozen in terror in the corner, launched forward, grabbed a forgotten knife on the floor, and stabbed it.

It scurried away after that, shrieking with laughter as it did, and Stan fell on his knees next to Richie. “Fuck, Richie, I’m so sorry, I should have moved sooner,” he gasped out, sounding agonized. “I just got stuck, I’m sorry, are you oka—”

Richie surged up and wrapped his arms around Stan’s neck, pulling him into a crushing hug. “I can’t fucking see without my glasses, so I hope this is Stan I’m hugging right now,” he muttered and was rewarded with a wet chuckle from Stan. “I knew you had it in ya, Stanley,” he whispered so only he could hear, smiling as Stan clutched him harder.

They all regrouped and made their way further into Its lair. Somewhere along the way, Bev wordlessly passed her fence post to Eddie, who was bewildered to say the least as to why she picked him. They made eye contact and some sort of understanding passed between them.

“What do I do with it?” Eddie whispered.

Bev shrugged and murmured, “Whatever you need. It kills monsters, if you believe it does.”

Mike grouped them all in a circle to have them burn the artifacts they collected. And Richie had felt a little bad that they had all sacrificed something traumatic, like Georgie’s boat or Eddie’s inhaler or that fucking token, or something relatively simple and replaceable, like a rock covered in blood or a birdwatching guide—all except Ben and Beverly, who had to burn something meaningful, something deeply treasured and symbolic of their connection.

(Though Richie’s about 99% positive they were making out under the water, like, ten minutes ago, so he guesses he needn’t feel _too_ bad.)

And for all that, the ritual hadn’t worked. Mike hadn’t understood why, muttering dismayed and distraught, “It should have worked, why didn’t it work, guys, I don’t know—” while It cackled at him, the fucker.

It predictably started attacking, giant clown torso connected to clawed spider legs—which, you know. Always had to hand it to Pennywise for fucking creativity.

Then they got split up.

Again.

Stan, Richie, and Eddie ended up together at three doors reading “Not Scary At All,” “Scary,” and “Very Scary,” Richie immediately groaning in recognition. He and Eddie bickered about which door to pick for much longer than Stan typically would have allowed before he threw his arms up in frustration and chose for them—earning him yells of indignation when a pair of severed, bloody legs came dancing towards them. Though they swiftly apologized to Stan after they threw open a door to a Pomeranian transforming into a 9-foot tall, snarling monstrosity, prompting them all to acknowledge there was no way to win this game. Shocking.

More running around and screaming, yadda yadda, until Richie tried to save Mike and got caught in Its weirdass deadlights for his troubles. Which involved a whole lot of pain and disturbing imagery that Richie is decidedly not ready to revisit yet.

Eddie saved him—of course he did, the brave, beautiful bastard, of course the two so convinced they weren’t enough for this were the ones who hauled Richie’s ass out of the fire, he loves them so much—and Richie woke up to the downright _magnificent_ image of Eddie straddling him, leaning over his face and repeating his name over and over. When he saw Richie regaining consciousness, he heaved a relieved sigh, beamed down at him, and stroked a hand through his hair, whispering, “You’re okay, you’re okay.” 

And yes, Richie had just been caught in a demon alien’s weird, hypnotic death ray, and yes, he had hit his head pretty hard falling out of it, so _yes_ , he recognizes he was not the most reliable eyewitness in that moment. But he will swear on his life that Eddie had started to lean down towards him. Towards his lips.

It wasn’t until Stan screamed for Eddie to watch out that Richie noticed Its claw barreling towards them. With a yelp, he latched onto Eddie’s waist and rolled them both over in time to dodge, then they all took off with even more running and screaming. 

As they all regrouped again, exhausted and terrified, Eddie mentioned something about making It small, and suddenly everything clicked. When they couldn’t use the caverns to do it, they used their words. And there was something unspeakably rewarding for this group of losers, intimately familiar with taunts and unspeakable disparagement, to be able to turn it around on their biggest fucking bully.

The rest was a blur to Richie: weakening It until Mike could plunge his hand in Its chest for Its heart, extending it in front of himself for the seven of them to grab hold and crush it between their fingers; the deadlights flickering to nothing and the walls of Its lair beginning to crumble around them; all of them racing for the exit, crawling out into a bright new day moments before the Neibolt house started collapsing into the ground. All of them frantically looking around at each other, counting heads, realizing all seven of them were here, alive and well and _together_ , then exploding into a raucous cheer and falling into another awkward, clumsy, _perfect_ group hug as their worst nightmare fell to ruin behind them.

Richie looks around at all of them now, each of their bright, beautiful, absolutely fucking badass faces, and is filled with so much pride and affection it makes his eyes wet.

His heart starts racing at the words that pop into his head and he clams up a little, but goddammit, this is _important_ , he could have lost any one of them today. _Focus, focus, focus, Richie._ Taking a deep breath, he forces out an emotional, “Hey, I love you guys.” 

There’s a pause as that sinks in. Then he’s given some fond chuckles, a proud look from Bev, a gentle pat on the back from someone—he has the sneaking suspicion it was Stan—and all six of them echoing it; simple, easy statements of “I love you guys” on all sides that has Richie’s chest buzzing with bliss. 

He turns to look at Eddie on his right to find him already staring back at him. Their eyes meet and a warm smile slowly spreads across Eddie’s face. Richie smiles back, then desperately tell himself this might be the last time he gets to touch Eddie like he really wants to. So he drops his gaze to his feet and grabs Eddie’s hand, lacing their fingers together.

Eddie doesn’t protest, just gives Richie’s hand a firm squeeze. 

***

“Eduardo, andale, let’s _go_!” Richie bellows up the stairs of the townhouse.

He’s given only a distant “Fuck off, Richie!” from down the hall in response. He heaves a long-suffering sigh and sends a defeated look to the other Losers behind him.

“Who would have thought there would come a day when Eddie Kaspbrak is the one holding us up from staying on schedule?” Ben asks with a teasing smirk.

“I know, right?” Richie grins. “Now, are we _sure_ we didn’t all die yesterday?” And Stan actually takes a moment to give it genuine, concerned consideration before Richie smacks him in the arm.

They’re all gathered together at the bottom of the stairs, on their way to breakfast at an old diner they frequented as kids for one last meal before their flights out of Derry this afternoon. And Richie is pretending to be impatient and annoyed at Eddie, for the principle of it, but in reality he’s grateful for the wait. The longer they can delay going to breakfast, the longer they can delay heading separate ways again. The more chances Richie has to look around at them and soak up the exhilaration of finally feeling… _whole_ again. 

Everyone’s trying to keep the mood light and fun, Richie and Bev especially, but they can all feel a solemn energy in these last moments together. Like they’re all anticipating just how much it’s going to hurt walking away from each other.

Like they’re all already scared of the possibility they may keep walking and never be able to turn around and find their way back.

Mike is positive they’ll all keep their memories this time, regardless of whether they stay in Derry or not. He attributes the memory loss from before to Its power and is confident they’ll remember everything with It dead.

There is, like, literally no evidence to give that theory any substantial weight, so the other Losers are all cautious to say the least, but no one’s about to voice those doubts. Because they’re all desperate to believe Mike’s right. Desperate to believe they’re going to get to keep each other this time.

Richie’s not sure he can make it through a future where he doesn’t. 

He’s snapped out of these thoughts with the sudden commotion of Eddie bounding down the stairs. “Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry,” he rambles, looking and sounding frazzled. “I was on the phone with Myra.”

Richie’s heart clenches painfully in his chest, which he hastily ignores, just like he’s ignored every thought, feeling, and overall ache related to the concept of Eddie leaving. Of Eddie going back to his wife, who smothers and manipulates him, and makes him miserable. Of never getting any closure, no acknowledgment of what Richie and Eddie used to be, what they used to mean to each other. Of having to go day to day without Eddie’s fastidious rantings or the giggles he tries to hide under exaggerated annoyance but can never quite manage.

Nooope, if there’s one thing Richie Tozier is good at, it’s swallowing down unwanted emotion. So he just stares down at his shoes, mentally latching onto some shitty Weezer song he heard earlier and dissociates like a pro while Eddie goes into detail about his “very important” call with his wife. 

Until Richie catches the words, “I asked for a divorce.”

Then he inhales so sharply he chokes on his own spit and utterly steamrolls the conversation as he starts hacking up a lung. Mike, Bill, Ben, and Bev all glance at him with equal parts concern and muted excitement. Stan shoots him a look that translates to “I should have let that spider eat your face,” but whacks him on the back anyway.

Eddie does not look at him. Which is fair.

 _He’s leaving an unhealthy marriage, this doesn’t mean anything_ , he sternly reminds himself as he keeps right on coughing. He does however let himself glance down at Eddie’s left hand and revel in the vicious satisfaction at seeing it bare.

“Oh! Well, that’s…” Mike starts, but then trails off, looking around at the other Losers for the appropriate reaction in this situation. When he is met with nothing, he turns back to Eddie and softly asks, “Are you okay, Eddie?”

“Yeah, of course,” Eddie shrugs, sounding completely and genuinely unbothered. “I mean, I don’t love her. I don’t think I ever did.” Richie, having finally calmed down, jolts at that and turns his full attention to Eddie, drinking in every word like it’s healing something battered and bruised within him. Because, well, it is. “She’s not good for me. She’s always treated me like I’m helpless and need to be protected, just like my mom, but I’m fucking not. After all this bullshit, I can’t just go back to my old life like nothing ever happened, I need…” Eddie glances around at the Losers, eyes lingering on Richie, and Richie’s heart launches into his throat. “I need you guys, the only people who have ever believed in me, not a wife who doesn’t.”

Eddie pauses for a moment, then blurts in one breath, “Also I’m gay, so.”

And in that moment, Richie can finally accept that Eddie really doesn’t remember ever being with him, because Eddie looks around at them all expectantly like the information he’s just given is supposed to be shocking news and not just a reiteration of what they’ve all known since they were sixteen. It takes the other Losers a couple moments to clue in, then they’re all rushing to say something presumably kind and reassuring. Richie wouldn’t know; currently they all sound like they’re back underwater in the quarry, his thundering pulse the only thing his ears are fully processing.

 _So he’s gay, that doesn’t have anything to do with you_ , he tries to argue, but it’s a weak argument and he knows it. For the first time since Richie saw that damn ring, when he feels something like hope start seeping into his chest, he doesn’t immediately drain it out. He keeps it and lets it simmer… just a little. 

When he doesn’t hear Richie say anything—cause fucking god, how is he supposed to speak right now—Eddie turns to look at him. And when their eyes meet, he isn’t mad, or disappointed, but deep in thought. Looking on the brink of saying something else, something to Richie specifically. And of course, _of course_ this is the one time Eddie Kaspbrak won’t just say what’s on his mind. _Please say something, Eddie, please say it, please please_ —

“Oh my god, Richie, please take him to the bridge before I lose my fucking mind,” Stan groans exasperatedly. 

“Stan!” Bill hisses, elbowing him in the side.

“Ow!” Stan yelps, glaring at Bill. “What?”

Well, if you can’t count on one blunt, no-nonsense jackass to get the ball rolling, you can count on the other one. And Richie’s grateful to him for it, he can’t deny that, but he also can’t deny the dread dropping in his stomach like a cast iron weight. Because now Richie’s gonna have to be the one to follow through on this.

He closes his eyes in defeat and tiredly sighs out, “Stan.” 

“ _What_ , I’m trying to help you, asshole!”

“They would have worked it out on their own,” Beverly chides.

Stan scoffs so hard it sounds like it hurts his throat. “No, they wouldn’t have!”

“Okay, he’s got a p-point there,” Bill mutters.

“Hey!” Richie cries.

“Maybe Richie just wasn’t ready yet,” Ben gently offers.

“No, he was,” Stan, Bill, Bev, and Mike all reply in unison. Ben accepts that with a shrug and a _sorry, I tried_ glance at Richie.

“Look,” Stan continues, “I’m sorry if I’m pushing you. But dear fucking Christ, you two have to deal with this, Richie, or you’re going to be inconsolable for the rest of our lives and I can’t let that—”

“It was real?”

They all turn back to Eddie, having sort of forgotten he was still standing there. Richie can tell by the others’ faces that they’re a bit surprised to hear Eddie’s voice sounding so hushed and… tender. It’s a side of him the others never really got to hear. Richie himself hasn’t heard it in years, and it sends a wave of heat, slow and sweet like honey, dripping down his spine. 

Eddie’s eyes, even wider than normal, like a deer’s when caught in headlights, bore into Richie and they twinkle with shock, disbelief, and something akin to awe. His throat bobs when Richie meets his gaze, then he continues quietly, “The… the bridge… that’s real, you really…?”

 _Welp. Fucking now or never, Trashmouth. You wanted this. You’ve done it before, and it was the best decision you ever made._ That last thought coupled with the soft way Eddie is looking at him works like a balm on Richie’s poor nerves. _This is gonna be okay. Hell, it might even be great._ He swallows around the lump in his throat and croaks out, “Yeah, I did. Do you want to go see?”

Eddie opens his mouth, but before he can get a word out, Stan is shoving them both towards the door. “I don’t care what your answer is, Eddie, the correct answer is yes. Go, we’ll meet you at the diner when you’re done. Buh-bye.”

And the other four Losers all pretend like they’re continuing to scold Stan, but Richie sees the bastard on the receiving end of several quietly enthusiastic high fives as he and Eddie walk out.

***

10 minutes later, they’re back in front of their initials. And just like 24 years ago, Eddie stares at them silently, wearing an overwhelmed, incomprehensible expression, and Richie stares at him, shoving his hands in his pockets to stop their trembling. The second time is always easier than the first, so he doesn’t feel _quite_ as close to puking as last time. Character growth!

He does have to keep talking himself down from spiraling though. _Be patient, it’s going to be okay, Eddie just needs time, give him time, and maybe don’t bring up his mom this time, jackass, be patient—_

“When did you remember?” Eddie asks suddenly, voice so quiet Richie almost doesn’t catch it.

Caught off guard from being addressed so soon, he stammers, “Um, I— it… uh, it was pretty, you know… immediately.”

Eddie smiles weakly, eyes still glued to the bridge. “Yeah, same.”

Richie rears back a little in surprise because, uh, _that’s_ news to him.

Eddie catches this reaction in his periphery and snorts humorlessly. “I know,” he sighs, running a hand down his face. “I know, Rich, I’m sorry. I remembered this,” he gestures to the initials, “and… _us_ that first night we were back together. I just… thought I was making it all up.” He folds his arms tight across his chest as the lines around his mouth and on his forehead crease in frustration. “Any time I remembered something, my brain just… shut it down and ignored it. Convinced me it was just leftover fantasies or something. I don’t know why I…” He trails off and the frustration in his face smooths out into resignation. “I guess I… I didn’t want to accept it was real. Because…” 

“Because you were scared?” Richie asks softly, understandingly. _Because you were ashamed?_ He doesn’t ask because just the thought is still enough to make him feel seconds away from crumbling to pieces.

But Eddie shakes his head, still staring at the bridge. “Because I didn’t want to realize I’ve wasted all that time with Myra when I could have had you.” He pauses for a moment, lets that hang in the air. “When I was _supposed_ to have you,” Eddie continues, mostly to himself.

 _Oh_ , Richie thinks dumbly. Wildly. Joyously. And he turns up the heat on the hope that’s been simmering in his chest a little bit more, picking up his heartrate in the process.

For a terrifying moment, Eddie looks like he’s about to cry, face crumpling and eyes going glassy. But before Richie can decide on how to _stop that immediately_ , that emotion is replaced with white-hot rage and Eddie snarling out a furious “God, _fuck_ that stupid clown.” 

It startles a laugh out of Richie. “Yeah, man, fuck that clown,” he agrees passionately.

Eddie sighs a little and runs his hand down his face again. Then he finally, _finally_ turns to Richie. “So?”

“So what?”

“So why did you show me this, Rich?” Eddie prompts slowly, carefully, like he needs Richie to understand each word. “Why did you want me to remember?”

Something in Eddie’s expression—raw and vulnerable but brimming with determination—makes Richie realize what’s about to happen. This is really, actually happening.

And it’s not like Richie has ever been lit on fire, so he can’t speak with confidence on the subject, but he imagines it feels a lot like this.

He finally lets the desperate want he’s been keeping trapped behind his ribcage out, lets it explode in his chest and tug at his insides until everything aches with how badly he craves this man in his arms. Finally, since seeing that fucking ring, he lets himself really look at Eddie, fully drinking him in, and think _I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my entire life, I need you like I need this fucking air, I love you, I love you, I love you, Eddie Kaspbrak._

“Who says I care if you remember?” Richie laughs nervously, because apparently it’s his natural instinct to stall. “I’m just trying to avoid a beating from Stanley Uris. Imagine getting your ass kicked by an _accountant_ , Eddie, think of my pride—”

“Richie,” Eddie cuts him off, voice sharp but desperate. “Just say it. Please.”

And even after 20 years, Eddie can still see right through him. He already knows the answer: _Because I would do anything for you to love me again._

He just wants Richie to admit it.

Richie just wants Richie to admit it too.

But what can he fucking say, old habits die hard. Old fears stay lodged in your throat and suffocate the things you most want to say. “I don’t know, I guess if you’re going to be on the market again, we might as well try picking up where we—”

He’s cut off again as Eddie darts forward and kisses him.

And the feeling of Eddie Kaspbrak’s lips on his again, passionate and too forceful and unbearably sweet, is like coming home after a long, grueling, achingly lonely trip away. Richie could cry from how beautiful it is. As it is, he doesn’t, he just latches onto Eddie’s waist and melts into the kiss, swooning a little. Because 24 years of growth and maturity did absolutely nothing to change how romantic-novel-heroine-y a first kiss from Eddie makes him.

They stay like that for who knows how long. Maybe two minutes, maybe ten, maybe five days, who knows, who _cares_. When Eddie eventually breaks away, he’s panting hard and toying with the ends of Richie’s hair. “You spouted off the most eloquent monologue about my bravery, like, two days ago and _that’s_ your confession?” He gripes without an ounce of annoyance in his voice. “Can you at least be consistent?”

Richie huffs a breathless laugh. “I mean, clearly not, but I’ll work on it, babe.”

Eddie grins and moves his fingers fully into Richie’s hair. “I missed you so fucking much, Richie, you have no fucking idea.”

Richie makes a face and gestures at himself. “Um, no, I’m pretty sure I do—”

“Let me talk, dipshit,” Eddie chides, smile slowly fading into something softer and sadder. “After I lost you, right after that first semester, I just felt so… hollow. Like something was carved out of me and never filled back in. And I know we all did, and it was because of all of us, god, I missed the others _so_ much too, but… with you, it just…”

He trails off, holding Richie’s gaze silently. Suddenly his face crumples into devastation that freezes Richie’s heart in his chest. “I should have talked to you about this the moment I remembered, I’m so sorry I made you wait. _Again_ , you’re always having to wait around for me to catch up and it’s such _bullshit_ , I’m sorry, and I’m s—” Eddie’s voice cracks into a sob. “I’m so sorry I did this to us.”

Richie watches in horror as tears start to stream down Eddie’s face. He sniffles hard and slams his eyes shut, sounding agonized. “It’s my fault we forgot each other, I should have gone with you to L.A. and—fuck, Richie, you were right that we would lose each other, but I promised, I _promised_ we would stay together and I—”

“Eddie, no, no, don’t do that,” Richie interrupts frantically, scrambling to cup Eddie’s face so he’ll open his eyes and _hear_ Richie. “Of course it’s not your fault, how the fuck were you supposed to know what would happen? Come on, fuck the stupid clown, remember?”

Eddie chokes out a half sob, half laugh. “Yeah, I know, it just—”

“It doesn’t matter, Eds, not really,” Richie insists firmly, honestly. “I mean, it’s always gonna hurt to think about what we could have had, but I don’t fucking want to, okay? I just want to be happy I have you back now.”

Eddie looks at him with the same anguish for a few more beats, eyes darting around Richie’s face. Then, like the sun shining out after a storm, he smiles at Richie so fondly it takes his breath away.

He softly pecks Richie on the lips and rests their foreheads together. “I kept that other promise though,” he whispers. “I never loved anyone as much as I love you. Not even close.”

And Richie starts crying too, so overcome with the giddy joy and _relief_ racing through his veins. Just a few tears dripping down his beaming face as the final piece clicks into place and he finally has his life back. His beautiful, fulfilling, perfect life that he is never letting out of his grasp ever again.

He pulls Eddie into a tight hug and whispers back, “Neither did I.”

<><><>

The Losers ditched their school’s senior prom.

Richie hadn’t understood why at first. They had all gone to junior prom. Stan and Bill had scored a couple dates, Bev brought Mike along as hers, and they had all had a great evening.

Richie and Eddie hadn’t technically gone together, of course, just claimed they hadn’t been able to find dates to whichever of their peers cared enough to ask—which was accepted with an almost insulting amount of ease. They had also inadvertently ended up in a head to head competition in breaking Derry’s record for Most Painfully Awkward Slow Dance with the couple girls who had asked them to the floor, then teased each other about it in whispers for the rest of the night.

(“I always knew you would leave me for Amanda P, her tits are so much better than mine—”

“Yeah, don’t think I didn’t see those wandering hands on Jessica, Richard, of course you can’t show an ounce of decorum even when breaking my heart.”)

And yeah, the insufferable, romantic side of him had been a little disappointed that the two of them had to tack on smiles and dance with random girls they had never even spoken to instead of each other. But the rest of him had been content to share the evening with his friends, and on the side share secretive glances with Eddie, and play footsie under the table, and sneak a couple quick kisses underneath the bleachers, and take a detour to make out on the drive home.

It had been fun.

But when the other five Losers announced their plan to skip the senior prom, he hadn’t protested, just shared a bewildered glance with Eddie and gone along with it.

So they were more than a little confused when Mike slapped down in front of them a little neon pink flier reading, “LOSERS’ PROM ’94! This Saturday, 4:00PM, at the Hanlon farm.”

“What the dick is this?” Richie asks.

“Losers’ prom!” Mike exclaims with a bright grin while Ben whoops in delight behind him.

“Yes, we can still read, Mikey, thank you,” Eddie snarks drily. “He means why the fuck are we skipping the school prom and holding our own?”

Mike’s smile softens and he explains, “Well, we were all talking about it, and agreed that last year wasn’t really as fun for you two as it could have been, and we wanted to change that.” He shrugs a little. “You guys deserve to spend your last prom as a couple.”

Richie and Eddie both freeze at that, staring at Mike in wide-eyed disbelief. They glance around at all their other friends for confirmation, even more shocked to see them all nodding and smiling, all united in agreement to give up their own prom and go to all the work of creating a whole ‘nother one. Just so Richie and Eddie can dance together.

God _dammit_ , these bastards are _relentless_. How is he supposed to keep up the flippant, asshole friend persona under these kinds of circumstances? Unbelievable.

“Pleeease, I know this is just a convoluted ploy to arrange yourself an excuse to dance with me, Mikey,” Richie teases, voice wobbling enough that everyone can see through him in an instant.

“Oh, you caught me, Rich,” Mike replies with a grin.

Eddie is most definitely about to start crying, if the rapid blinking is anything to go by, and Richie’s pretty sure he’ll just straight up collapse in despair if he has to watch that happen. He sharply elbows Eddie in the side and exclaims, “ _Excuse_ me, your man is getting snatched up right in front of you! Have you _nothing_ to say?”

Eddie quickly wipes his eyes, turns to Richie with an unimpressed eyebrow raise—though Richie notes the glimmer of gratitude for the diversion in his eyes—and casually responds, “We’ve talked about this, Mike is the only person you’re allowed to cheat on me with.”

“What do you mean you’ve _talked about it_ —”

Richie cuts off Mike with a dramatic “Get yourself a man as supportive as this, ladies,” in Beverly’s direction, then flutters his eyelashes at Mike and purrs, “I accept your invitation, Michael.”

To Richie’s delight, the seven of them go all out for their little prom.

They end up holding it out past Mike’s barn in a small field, directly underneath a big oak tree. Multi-colored balloons litter the ground around them and a painted banner reading “Losers’ Prom ‘94” hangs from the oak’s branches. They set up a couple rickety fold-out tables filled with sweets, junk food, and about nine different types of soda. Bev brings her boombox and various mixtapes she threw together for the occasion.

They spend the first half of the evening bouncing back and forth between snacking and dancing. They sing along in loud, ridiculous voices for songs like “Baby, I Love Your Way” and “Take My Breath Away,” kicking balloons at each other all the while, but treat David Bowie’s “Heroes” like a national anthem when it comes on, singing their hearts out like their lives depend on it.

When the sun starts to disappear from the sky, they wrap themselves up in jackets and set up a bonfire to help keep them warm. They break for s’mores, then Bev switches out the current tape for one with slower songs. 

“Eddie, My Love” is the first song on said tape, which has Richie grinning like a madman and Eddie’s ears going red. Within seconds, Richie and Beverly are harmonizing the falsetto intro, and by the time it rolls into the first verse, all six of them are drawling along with The Chordettes, very loudly and very off key, while Eddie scowls at them, lips twitching as he fights down a smile. Halfway through the song, when no one shows any sign of stopping the serenade, he huffs and yells over them, “Why do _all_ of you know the words to this _whole_ song?!” and receives no answer.

As the tape continues, they all take up dramatic, over-the-top slow dancing. Richie and Eddie naturally partner up and immediately start driving each other crazy by being obnoxious (“Do not dip me, Richie, I swear to God, you’re too clumsy for that kind of shit, do not—Richie, _Richie_ , _fuck_ you, you piece of shit, _let me up_!”). The others take turns pairing up with each other, and whichever Loser is the odd one out for the song grabs a balloon to slow dance with, twirling through the three couples and whacking them with said balloon every now and again.

Eventually, “La Vie en Rose” comes on. Richie jolts a little as it starts, then turns to shoot Beverly Marsh an exasperated frown. And if the mischievous grin on her face is anything to go by, he has absolutely talked about this song in one of their old drink sessions. He gives her a dirty look for a moment before he breaks, and it cracks into a grin. 

He’s always inexplicably loved this song. It was so different from anything else he typically listened to, but man, he just adored it. He found it years ago on one of his grandmother’s Louis Armstrong records, and after that spent every visit to her house listening to it and daydreaming of Eddie Kaspbrak. 

And right here in this moment, looking at the very same boy of his dreams—flushed and beaming and looking like the most adorable thing in the world—and knowing _he’s mine and he loves me back and this moment is for us_ , Richie absolutely cannot help himself.

He drops the mocking, haughty waltz position they had been holding and gently pulls Eddie flush against him, loosely wraps his arms around Eddie’s neck, closes his eyes, and rests his forehead against his. And he’s a good head taller than Eddie, so it aches a little to crane his neck down like this. But god, it’s worth it for the feel of Eddie’s breathy chuckle huffed against his lips and Eddie’s arms wrapping around his waist and Eddie’s thumbs rubbing little circles into the small of his back as they slowly sway back and forth.

Richie fully expects the other Losers to rib him a little, but they don’t. He hears them continue to dance to the trumpet part of the song, the whack of a balloon hitting arms syncing up with the downbeat, and once the lyrics start they kick up some more dramatic, drawling singing. Eddie hums along and giggles when the Losers sing especially loud or offkey.

Richie stays completely silent and feels a small smile creep onto his lips as he lets it all wash over him. Carefree silliness and joy from his best friends; a warm, affectionate embrace from the love of his life; and an overarching, eternally resounding gratitude to be a Loser.

<><><>

“We are _not_ getting a Pomeranian,” Eddie calls furiously from their bedroom’s connected bathroom.

“But Eds, it’s, like, _our_ dog!” Richie calls back from his spot on the bed, scrolling through a nearby shelter’s website on his phone. He grins to himself as he hears Eddie start sputtering. “What else would we get?”

“Literally _any_ breed of dog that didn’t mutate into a pants-shitting hellspawn in front of us? We should have lots of options since it was only the _one_!”

“We could name it Penny!”

Eddie appears in the bathroom doorway, suited up in a navy blue blazer with his hair combed back, looking like a regular dreamboat as he stares at Richie like he’s about three seconds away from throwing him out a window.

“Have you actually lost your mind?” Eddie asks, completely serious. “Like is this it, we’ve waited too long to start therapy and now you’re having a fucking breakdown?”

“ _Eddie_ , come on, look at this cute little guy—”

“Am I in danger here? Are you about to fly into a rampage and strangle me with my own socks or something? Cause there’s no way in hell you’ll get away with it.” Eddie ducks back into the bathroom to snatch up his phone and wave it in the air. “I’m texting with Beverly right now, she knows we’re in this apartment together, and I don’t care how close you two are, she is not letting you get away with my murder, Richie, literally none of them would—”

“Are you ready to head out, Eddie, my love?” Richie asks with his most cloying tone, making a show of locking and pocketing his phone, a gesture of _see? No Pomeranians here, you’re safe._

“No, some obnoxious asshole keeps distracting me,” Eddie grumbles and stomps back into the bathroom.

The moment Eddie is out of sight, Richie whips his phone back out to text the group chat—one that, since its creation once they left Derry again, hasn’t gone a single day without being updated. It’s filled with: Bill fundamentally misunderstanding how a group chat works and sending articles meant solely for Stan, because no one else would _ever_ read something so dull; Ben and Beverly’s gorgeous, supermodel selfies on boats with their equally gorgeous supermodel dog; Mike’s updates on his cross-country road trip (funded, of course, by the Losers’ frankly excessive incomes); and Richie’s shitty memes coupled with Eddie berating him for said memes.

He types out: eds n me r thinkin of adopting a pomeranian named penny :D thots?

“RICHIE, FOR FUCK’S SAKE,” Eddie bellows from the bathroom. 

Stan replies instantly: I think that’s a great idea. It will give me the excuse I’ve been looking for to never visit your apartment again.

After a bit more back and forth with Stan and a couple thumbs down reactions on the original message from Bev and Mike, Eddie exits the bathroom, pocketing his phone and slipping his shoes on. “Alright, I’m ready. Do you have…” he pauses and scans Richie up and down. “… Everything?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Richie shrugs, aiming for nonchalant but probably missing by a mile, knowing him. 

Eddie’s eyes linger on Richie’s pockets for a beat, squinting hard, then he nods and heads out the door.

Ever since the return from Derry, the Losers have all gotten together for dinner once a month. The first one was held at Stan’s house so all the Losers could meet Patty—which was of course lovely, because Stan married a lovely saint of a woman, who exuded nothing but care and patience for her husband’s weirdass friends. All of the other dinners have been in L.A., since that’s where five of them had ended up. Stan and Mike always have to fly out, but neither mind it much, Stan being the one with the easiest job to get away from, and Mike enjoying an excuse to not stay in one place for too long.

And they were all adults with busy lives now and it was admittedly a little difficult to organize a get-together every month, but damn if they weren’t committed to it. (Bill had flat out cancelled and rescheduled an important book tour because it interfered with last month’s Losers’ Club Reunion. That was the moment they all realized they were maybe a little too codependent, but they just shrugged and agreed that they had earned the right to behave that way).

Tonight Eddie announces to the table that his divorce finally went through earlier this week. Bev, whose own divorce had finalized six weeks ago, high fives him. Ben and Richie share a glance at that, but instead of pining boy solidarity, it’s an act of _dude, we fucking made it_ victory, and they both grin like idiots over it.

Mike predictably has more vacation photos to pass around. Everyone dramatically groans for the principle of it but eagerly looks at all of them, demanding stories and context for each one.

They all make sure to roast Bill’s new book, choosing random details or pieces of dialogue that no one actually disliked, but are necessary for their fixation because they all loved the ending this time. Bill immediately takes notice, interrupting them with a smug, singsong “I notice no one’s saying anything about the ending though.” There’s a pause as they all look at each other and try to figure out how to deflect this. When they come up with nothing, Eddie pipes up with an aggravated, “The ending was fucking perfect, jackass, and I bawled my eyes out, and I’m suing.”

Then Stan, after waiting for someone to prompt him as though he didn’t want to distract from other updates, blushes with excitement and softly announces Patty is pregnant. And all six of them whoop and scream so loudly the waitress has to come over to politely, but sternly, ask them to shut the fuck up.

It’s all so completely perfect, and Richie lives for every moment of it.

Well… almost every moment of it. 

Everyone asks Richie how writing his own material is going and teasingly prod him for when he’ll have a show ready for them. He rolls his eyes to the ceiling, because he knew mentioning this plan to them was a bad idea. Goddamn relentless bastards excited about supporting him in a new venture of his life. Unbelievable. “Good god, you vultures, you’re worse than my manager. You can’t rush the creative process! I’m an artist, not a machine!” He exclaims melodramatically, flapping a hand at them.

Eddie looks at him a little guiltily afterwards, and Richie waves that _right the fuck off_. Sure, the last five months of his life since Derry have been pretty Eddie-centric, but at Richie’s complete and total insistence. Because for fuck’s sakes, what else would he want his life to be?

But yes, between moving Eddie out of his house in New York and into Richie’s apartment in L.A. for the briefest amount of time before moving them into _another_ L.A. apartment—because Richie missed the chance to make a home with Eddie once; like hell he was just going to carve a space for Eddie in his old place when they could start from scratch together—and keeping Eddie company on his trips back to New York for the divorce meetings, and just generally spending any ounce of free time together… not to mention all the other gross, upkeep minutiae that comes with being in the entertainment industry, as well as just good old fashioned procrastination… yeah, with _all of that_ he hasn’t gotten much writing done.

But he does want to. For the first time since moving out to L.A., he doesn’t want to just duck his head and nod along to suggestions of ghost writers. For once he’s actually _inspired_ to give writing a shot his own self, to own who he is and display it proudly to the world.

And if it’s because he now has a nice little support group of people who think he’s funny, and an unwaveringly loyal hothead of a boyfriend who believes in him and throws hissy fits at the idea of self-absorbed Hollywood pricks telling him they can write a better Richie Tozier show than Richie Tozier… well, who could blame him? Those are powerful motivators.

So he’s determined to write his own show. But it’s still going to have to wait a little longer yet.

Because now Eddie’s divorce is finalized. And Richie has a ring and a wedding to plan.

Which Eddie already knows.

A couple months into living together, the two of them had been cozied up together on the couch, Richie munching on some pizza while Eddie largely ignored his own slice in favor of complaining about someone at work. Richie’s legs were propped up on Eddie’s lap and he watched Eddie’s hand stroke his calf absentmindedly as he ranted. Then his eyes fixated on Eddie’s bare ring finger and he suddenly wanted to be married to this man _so badly_.

Not that it was the first time he had ever had that thought. But on that night, the two of them so casually domestic in their brand-new home, the thought was pretty damn intense.

Richie indecisively toggled back and forth between mentioning it and burying it deep, deep within his brain, sweat gathering on the back of his neck and bile rising up in his throat. Until a voice in his head shouted _focus_ and he interrupted Eddie with a nervous “Eds, do you think you might want to get remarried someday?”

After a moment of silence, Richie glanced up to see Eddie looking at him like Richie had just said he was giving up comedy to become a wood whittler. Richie immediately opened his mouth to backpedal like his life depended on it, until Eddie said, “What the fuck do you mean _someday_ , I’m expecting a proposal, like, the instant the divorce goes through.” He whipped out his phone, still talking as he started tapping and scrolling. “Here, I’ve already picked out the ring I want, it’s a little pricey, but I’m budgeting to set aside some money from my next few paychecks, so it should be fine—”

Richie was not proud to admit that he had burst into tears right then and there. 

In these last few days since the divorce finalized, Eddie hasn’t necessarily brought the topic up, but in calm, quiet moments between just the two of them, Richie’s noticed Eddie glancing at him expectantly. Richie always innocently smiled back, and Eddie levelled him with a very conflicted scowl, obviously wanting to demand Richie’s proposal but realizing that was a bit much, even for him.

But any attempts made to throw Eddie off the scent have been ruined by Richie being an anxious, jittery disaster of a man today, accidentally breaking three different mugs and trying to distract himself with random things like the idea of getting a dog. And Eddie has definitely caught on if the constant side-eye is anything to go by. He’s really upped it since they left their place, narrowing his eyes at Richie’s pockets like if he concentrates hard enough he can develop x-ray vision and find the ring box. 

So, yeah, Eddie knows Richie is proposing tonight.

What he doesn’t know is that Richie has a mountain of blankets and a pan of brownies he whipped up while Eddie was at work tucked away in the trunk, a Spotify playlist with Eddie’s name in the title queued up, and a location outside of the city where they can see the stars saved in his GPS.

He doesn’t know that Richie has the “Fucking Shakespearean Soliloquy About How Into You I Am” he mentioned all those years ago written out and stuffed in his pocket next to the ring. And that tonight is the night Eddie finally gets to hear it.

It’s absolutely petrifying, but goddammit, it’s time. It’s _past_ time. No matter how difficult it is, no matter how many times he clams up, he is getting out every word tonight. No jokes, no quips, no Voices. Just every reason he loves Eddie Kaspbrak, everything Richie would do to keep him happy, every fucking word of affection he’s been swallowing down all these years. Just his heart completely and utterly bared.

Eddie is finally going to know just how much Richie loves him.

Then they’ll adopt a dog (not a Pomeranian; Richie’s as fucking revolted by those things now as Eddie is, he just likes being a dick). And get married. And spend the rest of their lives cooking dinner together, Richie purposefully making a mess to get a rise out of Eddie, and Eddie taking the bait each and every time, even though he’s long since caught on. And waking up together, Richie dragging himself out of bed at the godawful hours Eddie has to go to work, making sure to brush his teeth or chew some gum so he can kiss Eddie goodbye before collapsing back into bed for a few more hours of sleep. And curling up together on the couch after a busy day, Richie resting his head on Eddie’s lap or his shoulder, or maybe sitting between Eddie’s legs, back to his chest; and Eddie always, always with a hand in Richie’s hair, gently stroking it and pressing kisses to his temple in between their bickering.

But for this current moment, surrounded by his favorite people in the world, Richie is going to laugh and reminisce with his best friends, hold Eddie’s hand under the table, and just revel in the fact that he gets to have this again.

That this time, he gets to keep this.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! Please feel free to leave a kudos or a comment if you feel so inclined, I'd love to hear thoughts!


End file.
